UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA.  SAN  DIEGO 


3  1822  02142  6408      , 


r — ^ 

LIBRARY 


V. 


UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


-J 

M    A    G    D    A 

A    Play    in    Four    Acts 


By 

HERMANN    SUDERMANN 

Translated  from    the    German    by 

CHARLES  EDWARD  AMORY  WINSLOW 


Copyright,  1895,  by 
Lamson,  Wolffe  and  Company. 

Assignment  of  above  Copyright  to 

Emanuel  Lederer, 
13  West  42d  Street,  New  York  City, 

recorded  in  Assignment  Book 
V.  31  Page  143,  June  8,  1899,  Washington,  D.  C, 


CAUTION. — Professionals  and  amateurs  are 
hereby  notified  that  this  play  is  fully  copyrighted 
under  the  existing  laws  of  the  United  States 
Government,  and  nobody  is  allowed  to  do  this 
play  without  first  having  obtained  permission  of 
Samuel  French,  24  West  22d  Street,  New  York, 
City,  U.  S.  A. 


Copyright,  1895, 
By  Lamson,  VVolffe,  and  Company. 


Note. 


rjERR  HERMANN  SUDERMANN  hag 
■*-■'■  achieved  surprising  success  in  passing 
from  novel-writing  to  dramatic  authorship.  He 
has  a  style  of  the  utmost  distinction,  and  is 
well  skilled  in  technique.  His  masterpiece, 
"  Heimat,"  is  absolutely  original.  No  play  has 
ever  produced  a  more  impressive  effect  upon 
German  audiences.  When  it  ceases  to  be  per- 
formed, it  will  still  hold  a  permanent  and  im- 
portant place  in  the  libraries  of  dramatic  litera- 
ture. Though  a  psychological  study,  there  is 
no  concentration  of  attention  upon  morbid  con- 
ditions. All  these  have  passed  before  the  play 
begins.  There  is  no  passion  for  mere  passion's 
sake.  Its  development  proceeds  from  the 
energies  of  circumstances  and  character. 

Herr  Sudermann,  unlike  some  of  the  new 
dramatists,  is  not  lacking  in  humor ;  and  the 
snobbishness,  stuffy  etiquette,  and  scandal-mon- 
gering  of  a  provincial  town  are  well  illustrated 
by  the  minor  characters.  Into  this  atmos- 
phere comes  the  whirlwind  from  the  outer  world 
with   fatal  effect.     It    is   scarcely  possible   to 


^(Vl  1 78H 


Iv  Note. 

conceive  more  varied  and  intense  emotions 
naturally  and  even  inevitably  evolved  from  the 
action  of  a  single  day.  The  value  of  the  drama 
lies  in  the  sharp  contrasts  between  the  New  and 
the  Old,  alternately  commanding,  in  their  strife, 
the  adhesion  of  the  spectator  or  reader.  The 
preparation  for  the  return  of  "  The  Prodigal 
Daughter"  occupies  an  entire  act,  and  invests 
her  entrance  with  an  interest  which  increases 
until  the  tremendous  climax.  Yet  the  proud 
martinet  father  commands  our  respect  and 
sympathy ;  and  the  Pastor,  in  his  enlightened 
self-conquest,  is  the  antithesis  alike  of  the  nar- 
rowness and  lawlessness  of  parent  and  child, 
and  remains  the  hero  of  the  swift  tragedy. 

It  is  not  uncommon  that  the  scrupulousness 
attending  circumstances  where  partiality  would 
be  a  natural  impulse,  makes  criticism  even 
unusually  exacting.  It  is  believed  that  in  this 
spirit  the  present  translation  may  be  somewhat 
confidently  characterized  as  being  both  spirited 
and  faithful. 

E.  W. 

The  Oxford. 
January,  1896. 


Ill  compliance  uilh  currcnl 

copyright  law.  LBS  Archixal 

I'loducts  j^kkIucc'cI  this 

rcphueincnt  xolunicon  paj)cr 

ihai  iiiccls  ihc  ANSI  Siandaixl 

Z39.48-1984  to  replace  the 

irreparably  deteriorated  oriii^inai 

19(ScS 


too) 


Persons. 

SCHWARTZE,  Lieutenant-Colonel  on  half-pay. 

Magda,    [  j^.^  children  by  his  first  wife. 

Marie,     ) 

Augusta,  born  von  Wendlowski,  his  second  wife. 

Franziska  von  Wendlowski,  her  sister. 

Max  von  Wendlowski,  Lieutenant,  their  nephew. 

Heffterdingt,  Pastor  of  St.  Mary's. 

Dr.  von  Keller,  Councillor. 

Beckmann,  Professor  Emeritus. 

Von  Klebs,  Major-General  on  half  pay. 

Mrs.  von  Klebs. 

Mrs.  Justice  Ellrich. 

Mrs.  Schumann. 

Theresa,  maidservant  of  the  Schwartze  family. 

Place.  The  principal  city  of  a  province. 
Time.  The  present 


MAGDA. 


ACT  I. 

Scene.  Living-room  in  house  of  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  ScHWARTZE,  furnished  in  simple  and 
old-fashioned  style.  Left,  at  back,  a  glass 
door  with  white  curtains  through  which  the 
dining-room  is  seen.  There  is  also  a  hall  door, 
through  which  a  staircase  to  the  upper  story  is 
visible.  Right,  a  corner  window,  with  white 
curtains,  surrounded  by  ivy.  Left,  a  door  to 
the  LiELTiENANT- Colonel's  roo?n.  Steel  en- 
gravings of  a  religious  and  patriotic  character, 
in  tarnished  gold  frames,  photographs  of  mili- 
tary groups,  and  cases  of  butterflies  on  the  walls. 
Right,  over  the  sofa,  among  other  pictures,  is 
the  portrait  of  the  first  Mrs.  Schwartze,  young 
and  charming,  in  the  costume  of  the  sixties. 
Behind  the  sofa,  an  old-fashioned  desk.  Be- 
fore the  window,  a  small  table  with  work- 
box  atid  hand  sewing-machine.  At  the  back, 
between  the  doors,  an  old-fashioned  tall  clock. 
In  the  left-hand  corner,  a  stand  with  dried 
grasses  ;  in  front,  a  table  with  a  small  aqua- 


8  Magda. 

rium.  Left,  ift  front,  a  corner  sofa  with  a 
small pipc-ci4pboard  behind  it.  A  stove  with 
a  stuffed  bird  ofi  it ;  and  behind,  a  bookcase 
with  a  bust  of  the  old  Emperor  William. 

[Marie  and  Theresa  discovered.  Theresa  at 
the  door.  Marie  is  occupied  with  the  sewing- 
7nachine.'\ 

THERESA. 

Miss  Marie ! 

MARIE. 

WeUl 

THERESA. 

Is  your  father  still  lying  down  ? 

MARIE. 

What 's  the  matter  ?     Has  ^ny  one  called  ? 

THERESA. 

No,  but  —  There  !  Look  at  that !  \_Pro- 
ducing  a  magnificent  mass  offiowers.'\ 

MARIE. 

Good  Heavens  !  Take  it  to  my  room  quickly, 
or  papa  —  But,  Theresa,  when  the  first  came 
yesterday,  weren't  you  told  not  to  let  any  more 
be  left? 

THERESA. 

I  'd  have  sent  the  florist's  boy  away  if  I  could, 
but  I  was  up  on  the  ladder  fixing  the  flag,  and 


Magda.  9 

he  laid  it  down  and  was  gone  before  I  could 
stop  him.  My,  my,  though,  they  're  beautiful  ! 
and  if  I  might  make  a  guess,  the  Lieutenant  — 

MARIE. 

You  may  not  make  a  guess. 

THERESA. 

All  right,  all  right.  Oh,  I  know  what  I 
wanted  to  ask.  Does  the  flag  hang  well? 
[Marie  looks  out,  and  nods  assent."] 

THERESA. 

The  whole  town  is  full  of  flags  and  flowers, 
and  the  most  expensive  tapestries  are  hung  out 
of  the  windows.  One  would  think  it  was  the 
King's  birthday.  And  all  this  fuss  is  about  a 
stupid  Music  Festival !  What  is  this  Music 
Festival,  Miss  Marie?  Is  it  different  from  a 
choral  festival? 


Yes,  indeed. 
Is  it  better? 


MARIE. 

THERESA. 

MARIE. 


Oh,  much  better  1 

THERESA. 

Oh,  well,  if  it 's  better  —     [^  knock.] 

MARIE. 

Come  in ! 


lo  Magda. 


Enter  Max. 

THERESA. 

Well,  now  I  suppose  I  can  leave  the  flowers. 
\Exit  Theresa,  laughing. 

MARIE. 

You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Max. 

MAX. 

What  on  earth  do  you  mean? 

MARIE. 

Aren't  these  flowers  yours? 

MAX. 

Good  Heavens  !  I  can  afford  a  few  pennies  for 
a  bunch  of  violets  once  in  a  while,  but  this  — 
Oh,  no  ! 

MARIE. 

Nor  yesterday's? 

MAX. 

No,  nor  yesterday's.     [Marie  rings.'] 
Enter  Theresa. 

MARIE. 

Please  throw  these  flowers  away. 

THERESA. 

What !    Throw  those  beautiful  flowers  away? 


Magda.  1 1 

MARIE. 

You  are  right.  The  pastor  would  say,  "  If 
God's  gifts  do  not  please  us,  we  must  at  least 
take  care  that  they  give  pleasure  to  others." 
Wouldn't  he? 

MAX. 

Probably  he  would. 

MARIE. 

Then  you  had  better  take  them  back  to  the 
florist's.  Did  they  come  from  Zimmerman's? 
[Theresa  nods.']  Well,  we  '11  sell  them  if  we 
can,  and  give  the  money  to  Pastor  Heffterdingt 
for  his  hospital. 

THERESA. 

Shall  I  go  now? 

MARIE. 

After  you  have  made  the  coffee.  I  '11  serve 
it  myself.  [Exif  Theresa.]  These  flowers  are 
an  insult !  I  need  not  tell  you,  Max,  that  I 
have  given  no  one  the  shadow  of  an  excuse  for 
such  a  thing. 

MAX. 

I  'm  very  sure  of  that. 

MARIE. 

And  papa  was  so  angry.  He  simply  stormed. 
And  I  was  quiet  because  I  suspected  it  was 
you.  If  he  got  hold  of  the  poor  fellow,  it  would 
go  hard  with  him. 


12  Magda. 

MAX. 

Do  you  think  it  would  be  any  better  if  I  got 
hold  of  him  ? 

MARIE. 

What  rights  have  you  in  the  case? 

MAX. 

Marie  !     [_Takes  her  handJ] 

MARIE. 

\_Gently  disengaging  herself. '\  Oh,  Max, 
please  —  not  that.  You  know  every  comer  of 
my  heart.  But  we  must  think  of  the  proprie- 
ties. 

MAX. 

Proprieties  !     Oh,  pshaw  ! 

MARIE. 

Well,  you  know  what  a  world  we  live  in. 
Here,  every  one  is  afraid  of  every  one  else  be- 
cause each  depends  upon  the  good  opinion  of 
the  other.  If  a  few  anonymous  flowers  can 
make  me  talked  of,  how  much  more  — 

MAX. 

Oh,  yes,  I  know. 

MARIE. 

\Laying  her  hand  on  his  shoulder!^  Max, 
you  '11  speak  again  to  Aunt  Frankie,  won't  you, 
about  the  guaranty  ^  of  your  income  ? 

1  Without  which  officers  in  the  German  army  may 
not  marry. 


Magda. 

«3 

I  have  already. 

MAX. 

Well? 

MARIE. 
MAX. 

\Shrugging  his  shoulders^ 
lives,  not  a  penny. 

As  long  as 

1  she 

MARIE. 

Then  there  's  only  one  person  who  can 
us. 

help 

Your  father? 

MAX. 

MARIE. 

No.  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  let  him  hear 
of  it.     He  might  forbid  you  the  house. 

MAX. 

What  has  he  against  me  ? 

MARIE. 

You  know  how  he  has  been  since  our  mis- 
fortune. He  feels  that  there  is  a  blot  to  be 
wiped  out ;  and  especially  now,  when  the  whole 
town  echoes  with  music,  —  when  everything 
recalls  Magda. 

MAX. 

What  if  she  should  come  back,  some  day  ? 

MARIE. 

After  twelve  years  ?    She  will  never  come. 

{Weeps  :\ 


14  Magda. 

MAX. 

Marie ! 

MARIE. 

You  're  right,  you  're  right.  I  will  put  it 
away  from  me. 

MAX. 

But  who  is  the  one  person  who  can  help  us  ? 

MARIE. 

Why,  the  pastor ! 

MAX. 

Yes,  yes,  he  might. 

MARIE. 

He  can  do  everything.  He  stirs  your  very 
heart  —  as  if —  And  then  he  seems  like  a 
kind  of  relation.  He  should  have  been  my 
brother-in-law. 

MAX. 

Yes,  but  she  would  n't  have  it  so. 

MARIE. 

Don't  speak  angrily,  Max.  She  must  have 
made  atonement.  \_A  ring.']  Oh,  perhaps  this 
is  he. 

MAX. 

No,  no,  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Councillor  von 
Keller  asked  me  to  bring  him  here  to-day. 

MARIE. 

What  does  he  want? 


Magda.  i  r 


MAX. 


He  wants  to  interest  himseff  in  the  missions 
—  no,  it 's  in  our  home  work  particularly,  I 
think.  I  don't  know —  Well,  at  any  rate  he 
wants  to  come  to  the  committee  meeting  to- 
morrow. 


MARIE. 

I  '11  call  father  and  mother.  {^Enter  Theresa 
with  a  card.']  Show  him  in.  [^Exit  Theresa.] 
Entertain  him  until  I  come  back.  \_Gives  him 
her  hand.']  And  we  '11  talk  again  about  the 
pastor  some  other  time  ? 

MAX. 

In  spite  of  the  proprieties  ? 

MARIE. 

Oh,  Max,  I've  been  too  forward  !     Have  n't 

MAX. 

Marie ! 

MARIE. 

No,  no  —  we  won't   speak  of  it.     Good-by. 

\_Exit  Marie. 
Enter  Von  Keller. 

MAX. 

You  must  content  yourself  with  me  for  a 
few  minutes,  my  dear  Von  Keller.  \^They  shake 
hands^ 


1 6  Magda. 


VON  KELLER. 

With  pleasure,  my  good  sir,  with  pleasure. 
[6";/?.]  How  our  little  town  is  changed  by  the 
festival !  It  really  seems  as  if  we  were  in  the 
great  world. 

MAX. 

\_Laughing.']  I  advise  you  not  to  say  that 
aloud. 

VON  KELLER. 

What  did  I  say?  I  assure  you  I  did  not 
mean  anything.  If  such  a  misunderstanding 
got  abroad  — 

MAX. 

You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me  1 

VON  KELLER. 

Oh,  of  course  not.  Ah,  how  much  better  it 
would  be  to  know  nothing  of  the  outer  world  ! 

MAX. 

How  long  were  you  away  ? 

VON  KELLER. 

Five  years,  with  examinations  and  being  sent 
down  to  commissioners  and  all  that.  Well, 
now  I  am  back  again.  I  drink  home-brewed 
beer ;  I  patronize  local  tailors ;  I  have  even, 
with  a  noble  fearlessness  of  death,  eaten  the 
deer-steak  of  the  season  ;  and  this  I  call  pleas- 
ure !  Yes,  youth,  travel,  and  women  are  good 
things  j  but  the  world  must  be  ruled,  and  sober 


Magda.  17 


men  Hf^  needed.  Your  time  will  come  some 
day.  The  years  of  honor  are  approaching. 
Yes,  yes,  especially  when  one  joins  the  eccle- 
siastical courts. 

MAX. 

Are  you  going  to  do  that  ? 

VON  KELLER. 

I  think  of  it.  And  to  be  at  one  with  those 
of  the  cloth  —  I  speak  quite  openly  with  you 
—  it  is  worth  my  while,  in  short,  to  interest 
myself  in  religious  questions.  I  have  of  late 
in  my  speeches,  as  perhaps  you  know,  taken 
this  position  ;  and  as  for  the  connections  which 
this  household  has  —  let  me  tell  you  I  am 
proud  of  them. 

MAX. 

You  might  have  been  proud  long  ago. 

VON  KELLER. 

Excuse  me,  am  I  over-sensitive?  Or  do  I 
read  a  reproach  in  your  words  ? 

MAX. 

Not  quite  that,  but — if  you  will  pardon  me, 
it  has  sometimes  appeared  —  and  not  to  me 
alone —  as  if  you  avoided  the  houses  where  my 
uncle's  family  were  to  be  found. 

VON  KELLER. 

And  my  presence  here  now  —  does  not  that 
prove  the  contrary? 


1 8  Magda. 


MAX. 

Exactly.  And  therefore  I  too  will  spealc 
very  frankly.  You  were  the  last  person  to 
meet  my  lost  cousin,  Magda. 

VON  KELLER. 

\_Confused.']     Who  says  — 

MAX. 

You  yourself  have  spoken  of  it,  I  am  told. 
You  met  her  with  my  friend  Heydebrand  when 
he  was  at  the  military  academy. 

VON  KELLER. 

Yes,  yes,  it 's  true. 

MAX. 

It  was  wrong  of  me  not  to  ask  you  about  her 
openly,  but  you  will  probably  understand  my 
reticence.  I  feel  almost  as  if  1  belonged  to 
this    family  and  I    feared    to  learn   something 

which  might  disgrace  it. 

VON  KELLER. 

Oh,  not  at  all,  not  in  the  least.  It  was  like 
this.  When  I  was  in  Berlin  for  the  State  Exam- 
inations, I  saw  one  day  on  Leipsic  Street  a  fa- 
miliar face,  —  a  home  face,  if  I  may  say  so.  You 
know  what  that  is  when  one  is  far  away.  Well, 
we  spoke  to  each  other.  I  learned  that  she 
was  studying  to  sing  in  opera,  and  that  for  this 
purpose  she  had  left  her  home. 


Magda.  ig 


MAX. 

Not  exactly.  She  left  home  to  be  compan- 
ion  to  an  old  lady.  [Hest^afes.']  There  was  a 
difference  with  her  father. 

VON  KELLER. 

A  love  affair? 

MAX. 

In  a  way.  Her  father  supported  the  suitor 
and  told  her  to  obey  or  leave  his  house. 

VON  KELLER. 

And  she  went  away? 

MAX. 

Yes.  Then,  a  year  later,  when  she  wrote  that 
she  was  going  on  the  stage,  it  made  the  breach 
complete.     But  what  else  did  you  hear? 

VON  KELLER. 

That 's  all. 

MAX. 

Nothing  else? 

VON  KELLER. 

Well,  well,  —  I  met  her  once  or  twice  at  the 
opera-house  where  she  had  a  pass. 

MAX, 

And  you  know  absolutely  nothing  of  her 
life? 


20  Magda. 

VON  KELLER. 

[JVi/h  a  shrug.']  Have  you  heard  nothing 
from  her? 

MAX. 

Nothing  at  all.  Well,  at  any  rate,  I  am 
grateful  to  you.  I  beg  you,  however,  not  to 
mention  the  meeting  to  my  uncle,  unless  he 
asks  you  about  it  directly.  He  knows  of  it,  of 
course,  but  the  name  of  the  lost  daughter  is 
never  mentioned  in  this  house. 

VON  KELLER. 

Oh,  I  have  tact  enough  not  to  do  that. 

MAX. 

And  what  do  you  think  has  become  of  her? 

VON  KELLER. 

Oh,  music  is  a  lottery.  Ten  thousand  blanks 
and  one  prize.  A  host  of  beginners  and  but 
one  who  makes  a  career.  If  one  becomes  a 
Patti  or  a  Sembrich,  or,  to  come  down  to  our 
own  Festival  — 

Enter  Schwartze  and  Mrs.  Schwartze. 

SCHVVARTZE. 

\Shaking  hands^  Welcome  to  my  house  I 
Councillor  von  Keller,  my  wife. 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Pray  sit  down. 


Magda.  2 1 


VON  KELLER. 

I  should  not  have  dared,  madam,  to  ask  the 
honor  of  this  introduction  had  I  not  wished  so 
strongly  to  share  in  the  good  and  useful  work 
which  centres  here.  My  purpose  may  excuse 
my  temerity. 

SCHWARTZE. 

You  're  very  kind ;  but  you  do  us  too  much 
honor.  If  you  seek  the  centre  of  the  whole 
movement.  Pastor  Heffterdingt  is  the  man.  He 
inspires  all ;  he  controls  all ;  he  — 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Do  you  know  our  pastor,  sir? 

VON  KELLER. 

I  have  heard  him  speak  many  times,  dear 
lady,  and  have  admired  equally  the  sincerity  of 
his  convictions  and  his  naive  faith  in  human 
nature.  But  I  cannot  comprehend  the  influ- 
ence he  exerts. 

MRS,  SCHWARTZE. 

You  will  find  it  out.  He  is  so  plain  and  sim- 
ple that  one  hardly  realizes  what  a  man  he  is. 
He  brings  every  one  round. 

VON  KELLER. 

I  am  almost  converted  already,  dear  lady. 


22  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

As  for  US  here,  all  I  can  do  is  to  give  these 
weak  and  useless  hands  to  help  on  the  great 
work.  It 's  only  right  that  an  old  soldier  should 
dedicate  the  little  strength  left  him  by  the 
throne  to  the  service  of  the  altar.  Those  are 
the  two  causes  to  fight  for. 

VON   KELLER. 

That 's  a  great  thought  i 

SCHWARTZE. 

Thanks,  thanks,  but  no  more  of  this.  Ah, 
ten  years  ago,  when  they  gave  me  my  discharge, 
I  was  a  devil  of  a  fellow.  Max,  doesn't  my  old 
battalion  still  tremble  at  my  name  ? 

MAX. 

That  they  do,  uncle. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Ah,  that  is  one  thing  you  escape  in  the 
civil  service,  —  being  laid  on  the  shelf  without 
any  fault  of  your  own,  —  without  the  shadow  of  a 
fault.  Then  there  came  a  slight  stroke  of  apo- 
plexy. See  how  my  hand  trembles  now  !  And 
what  had  I  to  look  forward  to  ?  It  was  then  that 
my  young  friend,  Heffterdingt,  showed  me  the 
way,  through  work  and  prayer,  to  a  new  youth. 
Without  him  I  never  should  have  found  it. 


Magda.  23 

MRS.  SCHWART2E. 

You  mustn't  believe  all  he  says,  Mr.  von 
Keller.  If  he  did  n't  always  depreciate  himself, 
he  would  be  better  thought  of  in  the  highest 
circles. 

VON  KELLER. 

High  and  low,  madam,  everywhere  your 
husband  is  known  and  honored. 

SCHWARTZE. 

\_Lighting  up.'\  Indeed  ?  Ah,  well,  no  van- 
ity.    No,  no,  that  is  the  moth  that  corrupts. 

MRS.  SCITA'ARTZE. 

Is  it  really  so  wrong  to  wish  for  a  little 
honor  ? 

VON  KELLER. 

Oh! 

SCHWARTZE. 

What  is  honor?  You  would  call  it  being  led 
up  the  room  by  the  governor,  or  being  asked 
to  tea  at  the  castle  when  the  royal  family  is 
here. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

You  know  very  well  that  the  latter  honor  has 
never  fallen  to  my  lot. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Oh,  yes,  pardon  me.  I  knew  your  weak  spot. 
I  should  have  avoided  it. 


24  Magda. 


MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Yes,  just  think,  Councillor,  Mrs.  Fanny 
Hirschfeld  of  the  Children's  Hospital  was  in- 
vited, and  I  was  not. 

VON    KELLER. 

\Deprecatingly.'\     Oh ! 

SCHWARTZE. 

\_Lat/ghing,  and  sirokiiig  her  head.']  Ah,  the 
moth  that  corrupts,  the  moth  that  corrupts  ! 
\_Enter  Marie  with  the  coffee.  She  bows  in  a 
friendly  way  to  VoN  Keller.]  Herr  von  Keller, 
my  daughter  —  my  only  daughter. 

VON    KELLER. 

I  've  already  had  the  pleasure. 

marie. 

I  can't  offer  you  a  hand  for  welcome.  Dr. 
Von  Keller,  but  you  may  have  a  cup  of  coffee 
instead. 

VON    KELLER. 

\_Helping  himself  and  looking  at  the  others^ 
I  am  very  fortunate  in  being  treated  like  an  old 
acquaintance  of  the  family. 

SCHWARTZE. 

As  far  as  we  are  concerned,  you  shall  become 
not  only  an  acquaintance  but  a  friend.  And 
that  is  no  conventional  politeness.  Councillor; 
for  I  know  you,  and  in  these  times,  when  all  the 


Magda.  25 

ties  of  morality  and  authority  seem  strained  to 
bursting,  it  is  doubly  necessary  that  those  who 
stand  for  the  good  old  patriarchal  order  should 
hold  together. 

VON    KELLER. 

Very  true,  very  true  indeed.  One  does  n't 
hear  such  sentiments  as  that  in  the  world  in 
general,  where  modern  ideas  pass  current  for 
small  change. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Modem  ideas  !  Oh,  pshaw  !  I  know  them. 
But  come  into  the  quiet  homes  where  are 
bred  brave  soldiers  and  virtuous  wives.  There 
you  '11  hear  no  talk  about  heredity,  no  arguments 
about  individuality,  no  scandalous  gossip.  There 
modern  ideas  have  no  foothold,  for  it  is  there 
that  the  life  and  strength  of  the  Fatherland 
abide.  Look  at  this  home  !  There  is  no  luxury, 
—  hardly  even  what  you  call  good  taste,  —  faded 
rugs,  birchen  chairs,  old  pictures ;  and  yet  when 
you  see  the  beams  of  the  western  sun  pour 
through  the  white  curtains  and  lie  with  such  a 
loving  touch  on  the  old  room,  does  not  some- 
thing say  to  you,  "  Here  dwells  true  happi- 
ness "  ?     [Von  Keller  nods  with  conviction.^ 

SCHWARTZE. 

\_Broodinglyi\  And  here  it  might  have 
dwelt ! 

MARIE. 

\Hurrying  to  him.']     Papa  ! 


26  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Well,  in  this  house  rules 
old-fashioned  paternal  authority.  And  it  shall 
rule  as  long  as  I  live.  And  am  I  therefore  a 
tyrant?     Tell  me.     You  ought  to  know. 

MARIE. 

You  're  the  best,  the  dearest  — 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

He  is  so  excitable,  you  see.  Councillor. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Have  you  not  been  well  brought  up?  And 
shall  we  not  hold  together,  we  three?  But  the 
age  goes  on  planting  rebellion  in  children's 
hearts,  putting  mistrust  between  man  and  wife 
[m<fi^] ,  and  it  will  never  be  satisfied  till  the  last 
roof-tree  smokes  in  ruins,  and  men  wander 
about  the  streets,  fearful  and  alone,  like  home- 
less curs.     [_Sinks  back  exhausted^ 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

You  ought  not  to  get  so  wrought  up,  papa. 
You  know  it  is  bad  for  you.  [Max  makes  a 
sign  to  Von  Keller.] 

VON   KELLER. 

Shall  I  go?  [Max  nods.']  This  is  an  inter- 
esting subject  to  develop,  Colonel.  I  must  say 
I  think  perhaps  you  are  a  little  severe.  But  my 
time  — 


Magda.  27 


SCHWARTZE. 


Severe?    Ah,  well,  don't  think  ill  of  an  old 
man  for  speaking  a  little  too  hotly. 

VON    KELLER. 

Ah,  sir,  heat  is  the  badge  of  youth.    I  believe 
I  am  a  graybeard  beside  you. 

SCHWARTZE. 

No,  no.     \Presses  his  hand!\ 

VON    KELLER. 

Madam  !      Miss   Marie !     \Exit.     Max  fol' 
lows  him.'\ 

SCHWARTZE. 

Greet  the  battalion  for  me,  my  boy. 

MAX. 

I  will,  dear  uncle.  \^Exit. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

A  very  agreeable  man. 

MARIE. 

Almost  too  agreeable. 

SCHWARTZE. 

You   are    speaking   of    our  guest !      [Mrs. 
ScHWARTZE  makes  Marie  a  sign  to  be  careful^ 

MARIE. 

Will  you  have  your  pipe,  papa? 


28  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Yes,  dear. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

The  gentlemen  of  the  card-club  will  be  here 
soon.  How  lucky  that  we  did  n't  eat  the 
haunch  of  venison  Sunday  !  I  've  ordered  some 
red  wine  for  the  General,  too.  I  paid  three 
marks ;  that 's  not  too  dear,  is  it  ? 

SCmVARTZE. 

Not  if  it 's  good.  Is  your  sister  coming 
to-day  ? 

MRS.   SCHWARTZE. 

I  think  so. 

SCHWARTZE. 

She  was  asked  to  the  Governor's  yesterday, 
wasn't  she? 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

\_Sighing.']     Yes. 

SCHWARTZE. 

And  we  were  not.  Poor  thing !  She  must 
look  out  for  me  to-day  if  she  boasts.  [Aside'\ 
Old  cat! 

MARIE. 

[Kneels  before  him,  lighting  his  pipe."]  Be 
good,  father  dear.  What  harm  does  it  do 
you? 


Magda.  ap 

SCHWARTZE. 

Yes,  yes,   darling.     I  '11  be  good.     But  my 
heart   is   sore.       \_^Bell  rings.     Marie   hurries 

MRS.   SCHWARTZE. 

Here  they  are. 

Enter  Major- General  von  Klebs,  Professor 
Beckmann,  and  Marie. 

VON   KLEBS. 

My  humblest  respects  to  the  ladies.  Ah,  my 
dear  madam  !     \Kisses  her  hand."] 

MRS.   SCHWARTZE. 

Make  yourselves  at  home,  gentlemen. 

VON    KLEBS. 

Ha,  my  dear  Colonel,  hearty  as  ever?  All 
ready  for  the  fray,  little  one?  Now  we  are 
all  right.  But  we  were  almost  too  late.  We 
were  caught  in  the  Music  Festival  crowd. 
Such  a  confusion  !  I  was  bringing  the  school- 
master along,  and  just  as  we  passed  by  the 
German  House,  there  was  a  great  crush  of 
people,  gaping  as  if  there  were  a  princess  at 
the  least.  And  what  do  you  suppose  it  was? 
A  singer !  These  are  really  what  one  may  call 
goings-on.  All  this  fuss  about  a  singer  1  What 
do  they  call  the  person? 


30  Magda. 

BECKMANN. 

Ah,  General,  we  seem  to  be  in  a  strange  land 
to-day. 

VON    KLEBS. 

We  are  under  a  curse,  my  dear  madam.  We 
are  bearing  a  penance.     \They  sit.'\ 

BECKMANN. 

But  you  must  know  dall'  Orto,  the  great  Ital- 
ian Wagner  singer.  We  are  very  fortunate  in 
getting  her  for  the  festival.  If  she  were  not 
here  — 

VON   KLEBS. 

Well,  well,  what  if  she  were  not?  Eh?  I 
hoped  that  our  strictly  moral  circle,  at  least, 
would  hold  itself  aloof  from  all  this.  But  since 
the  Governor  gives  receptions  in  the  lady's 
honor  !  And,  best  of  all,  to  cap  the  climax, 
who  do  you  think  was  standing  to-day  among 
the  enthusiasts,  craning  his  neck  like  the  rest? 
You  '11  never  guess.  It 's  too  inconceivable. 
The  pastor  ! 

SCHWARTZE. 


The  pastor? 
Yes,  our  pastor. 


VON   KLEBS. 


SCHWARTZE. 

How  extraordinary ! 


Magda.  3 1 

VON   KLEBS. 

Now,  I  ask  you,  what  did  he  want  there? 
And  what  did  the  others  want  there?  And 
what  good  is  the  whole  festival? 

BECKMANN. 

I  should  think  that  the  cultivation  of  the 
faculty  of  the  ideal  among  the  people  was  an 
object  — 

VON    KLEBS. 

The  way  to  cultivate  the  faculty  of  the  ideal 
is  to  found  a  Soldiers'  Union. 

SCHWARTZE. 

But,  General,  every  one  is  n't  so  lucky  as  to 
be  a  soldier. 

VON    KLEBS. 

\^Sorting  his  cards."]  Well,  we  have  been, 
Colonel.  I  know  no  one,  I  wish  to  know  no  one, 
who  has  not  been  a  soldier.  And  all  this  so- 
called  Art,  —  what  good  does  it  do  ? 

BECKMANN. 

Art  raises  the  moral  tone  of  the  people. 

VON    KLEBS. 

There  we  have  it,  madam  !  —  We  're  beaten, 
beaten  by  the  hero  of  Koniggratz.  —  I  tell  you 
Art  is  a  mere  invention  of  those  who  are  afraid 
to  be  soldiers  to  gain  an  important  position  for 
themselves.     I  pass. 


32  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

I  pass. 

BECKMANN. 

And  will  you  maintain  that  Art —  I  have 
the  nine  of  spades. 

\Bell  rings.  Exit  Marie.  Von  Kl  ebs  makes 
an  impatient  movement.  Schwartze  quiets 
him.     They  begin  to  play-'] 

Enter  Y^ASziSYiA,  followed  by  the  Pastor. 

VON    KLEBS. 

Ah,    Miss  Franziska  !     \_Aside'\  That  is  the 

end  of  us  ! 

SCHWARTZE. 

No,  no,  we  '11  send  her  into  the  garden. 

FRANZISKA. 

\Throwing  herself  into  a  chair.]  Oh,  I  am 
so  hot !  I  must  get  my  breath.  Pray  don't 
put  yourself  out.  General. 

BECKMANN. 

Nine  of  spades  ! 

VON    KLEBS. 

Hello,  here  's  the  pastor  too  ! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Good- day  to  you  !  \He  shakes  hands  with 
each.] 


Magda.  33 


VON    KLEBS. 


How  long  have  you  been  running  after  the 
singers,  Pastor? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

What?  Oh,  yes.  Yes,  I  am  running  after 
singers.     That 's  my  occupation  now. 

SCHWARTZE. 

You  can  play  with  our  card  party  though, 
can't  you? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Unfortunately,  no.  I  must,  on  the  contrary, 
ask  for  a  few  serious  words  with  you,  my  dear 
sir. 

VON   KLEBS. 

Ah,  but  you  '11  put  it  off,  won't  you.  Pastor? 

FRANZISKA. 

Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  It 's  so  important. 
There  must  be  no  delay. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Is  my  sister-in-law  in  it  too? 

FRANZISKA. 

Very  much  so. 

VON   KLEBS. 

Oh,  well,  we  can  go  away  again. 
3 


34  Magda. 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Oh,  we  should  n't  Uke  that  at  all. 

SCHWARTZE. 

If  it  were  not  you,  dear  pastor,  who  sepa- 
rated us  ! 

MRS.   SCHWARTZE. 

But  perhaps,  Marie,  the  gentlemen  would  be 
willing  to  take  a  turn  with  you  in  the  garden. 

VON   KLEBS. 

Certainly  !  That 's  good  !  That 's  famous  ! 
That 's  what  we  '11  do  !  Miss  Marie,  be  so  good 
as  to  lead  the  way. 

BECKMANN. 

Shall  we  leave  the  cards  as  they  lie  ? 

VON  KLEBS. 

Yes,  you  have  the  nine  of  spades.    Come  on. 
i£xi/  Von  Klebs,  Beckmann,  an^/  Marie. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Well? 

FRANZISKA. 

Good  Lord,  don't  you  see  how  upset  I  am? 
You  might  at  least  give  me  a  glass  of  water. 
[Mrs.  Schwartze  brings  //.] 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Will  you  promise  me,  my  dear  sir,  that  what- 
ever may  happen  you  will  preserve  your  calm- 


Magda.  ^S 

ness?     You   may  believe  me,  much   depends 
upon  it. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Yes,  yes ;  but  what  — 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Miss  Franziska  will  tell  you  better. 

FRANZISKA. 

\^After  dri?ikifig  the  water.']  This  is  a  day 
indeed  !  Fate  is  avenging  me.  This  man  has 
for  years  outraged  my  holiest  feelings,  but  to- 
day I  can  heap  coals  of  fire  on  his  head. 
\^Moved.']  Brother-in-law,  give  me  your  hand. 
Sister,  yours. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Pardon  me,  dear  Miss  Franziska,  I  think  your 
news  is  so  important  that  — 

FRANZISKA. 

\_Melting.']  Don't  be  angry,  don't  be  angry. 
I  am  so  upset !  Well,  yesterday  I  was  at  the 
Governor's.  Only  the  nobility  and  the  most 
important  people  were  asked.  You  were  n't 
asked  ? 

SCHWARTZE. 

[Angrily.']     No. 

FRANZISKA. 

I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you.  Oh,  I  am  so 
upset  I     [Suppressing  a  sob  at  a  sign  from  the 


26  Magda. 

Pastor.]  Yes,  yes,  yes.  I  had  on  my  yellow 
silk  dress  with  the  Brussels  lace  —  you  know 
I  've  had  the  train  shortened.  Well,  as  I  stepped 
into  the  room  —  whom  do  you  think  I  saw  ? 

SCHWARTZE. 

Well,  well,  who? 

FR.\NZISKA. 

[^  Sodding.']     Your    child  !     Magdalene  ! 

[ScHWARTZE  staggers,  and  is  supported  by  the 
Pastor.    Mrs.  Schwartze  cries  out.    A  pause.] 

SCHWARTZE. 

Pastor  ? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

It  is  true. 

SCHWARTZE. 

\_Standing  up.]  Magdalene  is  no  longer  my 
child. 

FRANZISKA. 

Ah,  just  wait.  If  you  Hsten,  you  '11  look  at  it 
in  quite  another  light.  Such  a  child  you  will 
welcome  with  open  arms. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Magdalene  is  no  longer  my  child. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

But  you  may  at  least  hear  the  circumstances. 


Magda.  37 


SCHWARTZE. 

[_Dazed.'}     Yes,  I  suppose  so. 

FRANZISKA. 

[^/  a  sign  from  Heffterdingt.]  Well,  the 
great  dining-hall  was  crammed.  They  were 
almost  all  strangers.  Then  I  saw  his  Excel- 
lency coming  down  the  room.  And  on  his  arm 
was  a  lady  — 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

On  his  Excellency's  arm? 

FRANZISKA. 

With  dark  hair,  and  very  proud  and  tall  — 
and  around  her  a  crowd  of  men  just  like  the 
circle  about  royalty  —  and  chatting  and  laugh- 
ing. And  any  one  to  whom  she  spoke  seemed 
as  happy  as  if  it  were  the  Princess.  And  she 
wore  half  a  dozen  orders,  and  an  orange  band 
with  a  medal  about  her  neck.  I  was  wondering 
what  royal  personage  it  could  be  —  when  she 
turned  half  around  —  and  —  I  knew  Magda's 
eyes  ! 

SCHWARTZE. 

Impossible ! 

FRANZISKA. 

That  is  what  I  saw  I 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

My  dear  Colonel,  it  is  true. 


3  8  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

If  she  —  [  Claspifig  his  hands.']  At  least  she 
has  not  fallen  !  She  has  not  fallen  !  Father  in 
Heaven,  Thou  hast  kept  her  safely  ! 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

And  what  is  she,  to  have  such  honor  — 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

She  has  become  a  great  singer,  and  calls  her- 
self, in  Italian,  Maddalene  dall'  Orto. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Listen,  listen,  Leopold,  the  famous  singer  of 
whom  the  papers  are  so  full  is  our  child  ! 

SCHWARTZE. 

Magda  is  no  longer  my  child. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Is  that  your  fixed  resolve  ? 

FRANZISKA. 

What  sort  of  a  heart  have  you?  You  ought 
to  imitate  me.  She  offended  me  as  only  she 
could,  —  the  little  wretch  !  That  is,  then  she 
was  a  little  wretch.  But  now  —  well,  she  did 
not  look  at  me  ;  but  if  she  had  — 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Leopold,  she  was  on  his  Excellency's  arm  1 


Magda.  39 


SCHWARTZE. 

I  tell  you,  and  you, — and  you,  too,  Pastor,  — 
that  I  would  rather  have  seen  her  lying  in  rags  and 
tatters  at  my  feet  and  begging  for  forgiveness. 
For  then  I  should  have  known  that  she  was  still, 
at  heart,  my  child.  But  why  has  she  come  back 
here  ?  The  world  was  large  enough  for  her  tri- 
umph. Why  should  she  rob  this  humble  pro- 
vincial nest  of  ours?  I  know  why.  To  show 
her  miserable  father  how  far  one  can  rise  in  the 
world  by  treading  filial  duty  into  the  dust,  —  that 
is  her  intention.  Pride  and  arrogance  speak  in 
her,  and  nothing  else. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

My  dear  Colonel,  I  might  ask,  what  speaks 
in  you?  A  father's  love?  You  could  make 
no  pretence  to  that.  Your  rights?  I  think 
rather  it  would  be  your  right  to  rejoice  in  the 
good  fortune  of  your  child.  Offended  custom  ? 
I  don't  know —  Your  daughter  has  done  so 
much  through  her  own  strength  that  even  of- 
fended custom  might  at  least  condone  it.  It 
appears  to  me  that  pride  and  arrogance  speak 
in  you  —  and  nothing  else. 

SCHWARTZE. 

[Angrily.'\     Pastor ! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Oh,  don't  be  angry  —  there  is  no  need  of 
that.     When  I  have  something  to  say,  I  must 


40  Magda. 

say  it,  must  n't  I.?  I  might  almost  think  that 
it  displeased  you  that  she  has  climbed  so  high 
in  spite  of  you.  Your  pride  demands  something 
to  forgive,  and  you  are  angry  because  there  is 
nothing  to  be  forgiven.  And  now,  let  me  ask 
you,  do  you  seriously  wish  that  she  had  found 
her  way  home,  lost  and  ruined?  Do  you  dare 
answer  for  such  a  wish  before  the  throne  of 
God?  [A  silenceJ]  No,  my  dear  old  friend. 
You  have  often,  in  jest,  called  me  your  good 
angel ;  let  me  be  so  once,  in  reality.  Come 
with  me  —  now  —  to-day. 

FRANZISKA. 

If  you'd  only  seen —     [Heffterdingt  stops 

SCHWARTZE. 

Has  she  made  the  slightest  effort  to  approach 
her  parents?  Has  she  thought  of  her  home 
with  one  throb  of  love?  Who  will  vouch  for 
it  that  my  outstretched  hand  will  not  be  re- 
pulsed with  scorn? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

I  will  vouch  for  it. 

SCHWARTZE. 

You?  You,  above  all,  have  had  a  proof  of 
her  untamable  pride. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

\_With  embarrassment.']  You  should  not 
have  reminded  me  of  that. 


Magda.  41 

Enter  Marie  with  flowers,  and  Theresa. 

MARIE. 

Papa,  papa,  listen  to  what  Theresa  —  Oh  ! 
am  I  interrupting  ? 

SCHWARTZE. 

\PuUing  himself  together. '\     What  is  it  ? 

MARIE. 

To-day  I  got  some  more  flowers ;  and  when  I 
sent  Theresa  back  to  the  florist's,  she  found  out 
it  was  not  a  man,  but  a  lady,  who  had  ordered 
them.  And  she  could  n't  sell  them  again ;  so 
she  brought  them  back.  \The  others  exchange 
glances.'] 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Tell  me,  Theresa,  did  they  describe  this  lady 
to  you  ? 

THERESA. 

She  was  tall,  with  great  dark  eyes,  and  there 
was  something  very  distinguished  and  foreign 
about  her. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

\JLeads  Marie  to  the  back  of  the  stage,  and  lays 
his  hand  on  Schwartze's  arm."]  You  asked  for 
a  token  of  love  ! 

SCHWARTZE. 

[Staring  at  the  flowers^     From  her ! 


42  Magda. 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

They  must  have  cost  a  small  fortune  ! 

MARIE. 

Theresa  has  something  else  very  wonderful 
to  tell,  too. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

What  is  it,  Theresa  ?     Quick  ! 

THERESA. 

If  the  pastor  wishes  it.  When  I  came  back, 
the  porter  told  me  that  last  evening  in  the  twi- 
light a  carriage  stopped  before  the  door ;  there 
was  a  lady  inside.  She  didn't  get  out,  but 
kept  watching  all  the  windows  of  our  house 
where  there  were  lights.  And  when  he  went 
out  to  ask  what  she  wanted,  she  said  something 
to  her  coachman,  and  they  were  gone  !  [_A// 
show  signs  of  astonish7neni.'\ 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

That 's  all,  Theresa.  {Exit  Theresa. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Pardon  us,  dear  Miss  Marie,  if  we  treat  you 
once  more  like  a  child,  and  ask  you  to  leave  us 
alone  for  a  moment. 

MARIE. 

I  am  so  frightened  at  all  this,  Pastor,  [/w- 
pioringly.']     Papa  ? 


Magda.  43 

SCHWARTZK. 

What  is  it,  child  ? 

MARIE. 

Papa,  papa,  do  you  know  who  this  lady  is? 

SCHWARTZE. 

I?     No.     I  can  only  guess. 

MARIE. 

[Bursting  out.']  Magdalene  —  Magda  !  Mag- 
da  is  here  !  {Falling  on  her  knees.]  Oh,  you 
will  forgive  her? 

SCHWARTZE. 

Get  up,  my  child.  Your  sister  is  far  above 
my  poor  forgiveness. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

She  is  not  above  your  love. 

MARIE. 

Magda  is  here !  Magda  herself  is  here ! 
\Throws  her  arms  about  her  mother's  neck, 
weeping.] 

FRANZISKA. 

Won't  any  one  bring  me  a  glass  of  water?  I 
am  so  upset ! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Are  you  quite  resolved?  [Schwartze  re- 
mains motionless.]  Will  you  let  her  go  on  her 
way  without  — 


44  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

That  would  be  best. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

How  will  it  be  with  you  if  in  your  death-hour 
a  longing  for  your  lost  child  comes  upon  you, 
and  all  you  can  say  to  yourself  is,  "  She  stood  be- 
fore my  door  and  I  would  not  open  it  "? 

SCHWARTZE. 

^Shaken  and  half  convinced^  What  would 
you  have  me  do?  Must  I  abase  myself  before 
my  runaway  child  ? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

No,  you  shall  not  do  that.  I  — I — will  go 
to  her. 

SCHWARTZE. 

You  ?     Pastor  —  you  ? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

This  afternoon  I  waited  before  her  hotel  to 
see  if  Miss  Franziska  had  not  been  mistaken. 
At  a  quarter  to  four  she  came  put  of  the  house 
and  got  into  her  carriage. 

MARIE. 

You  saw  her? 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

How  did  she  look?     What  did  she  have  on? 


Magda.  45 


HEFFTERDINGT. 

The  performance  began  at  four,  and  must  be 
almost  over  now.  I  will  wait  for  her  again  at 
the  hotel,  and  will  tell  her  that  she  will  find  your 
arms  open  to  her.     May  I  ? 

MARIE. 

Yes,  yes,  papa,  won't  you  let  him? 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Just  think  with  whom  your  daughter  — 

SCHWARTZE. 

Will  you  swear  to  me  that  no  weak  and  per- 
sonal motives  are  mixed  with  your  intention,  — 
that  you  do  what  you  do  in  the  name  of  our 
Lord  and  Saviour? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

I  swear  it  I 

SCHWARTZE. 

Then  God's  will  be  done.  [Marie  gives  a 
cry  of  joy.  Heffterdingt /r(?jj(f  j  Schwartze's 
hand^ 

SCHWARTZE. 

[Holding  his  hand,  speaking  softly.']  The 
way  will  be  hard  for  you,  I  know.  Your  lost 
youth  —  your  pride  — 


46  M  agda. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Dear  Colonel,  I  begin  to  think  that  pride  is 
a  very  poor  sort  of  thing.  It  really  profits  us 
little  to  have  it  always  in  our  mouths.  I  am 
giving  back  a  daughter  to  an  old  father.  I 
am  giving  back  a  home  to  an  erring  soul.  That, 
I  think,  is  enough.  \_Exit.  Marie  throws 
herself  on  her  father's  breast,  laughing  and 
crying  ] 


Magda.  47 


ACT  II. 

IjCENE  same  as  Act  I.  //  is  evening ;  only  a 
slight  glow  of  sunset  still  shines  through  the 
windows. 

[Marie  and  Theresa  discovered^ 

THERESA. 

\_Bringing  in  a  lighted  lamp."]  Miss  Marie  ! 
Miss  Marie  !  —  What  is  she  staring  at  all  the 
time?     Miss  Marie  1 

MARIE  [starting']. 
[  From  the  window.]     What  do  you  want  ? 

THERESA. 

Shall  I  lay  the  supper? 

MARIE. 

Not  yet. 

THERESA. 

It 's  half-past  seven. 

MARIE. 

And  he  left  at  half- past  six.  The  perform- 
ance must  have  been  over  long  ago.  She  will 
not  come. 


48  Magda. 

THERESA. 

Who?     Is  any  one  coming  to  supper? 

MARIE. 

No,  no,  no.  [^4^  Theresa /j-^^/«^.]  Theresa! 
do  you  suppose  you  could  pick  a  couple  o^ 
bouquets  in  the  garden? 

THERESA. 

I  might  try,  but  I  could  n't  tell  what  I  was 
getting.     It 's  almost  pitch  dark. 

MARIE. 

Yes,  yes.     You  may  go. 

THERESA. 

Shall  I  try  to  pick  the  flowers,  or  — 

MARIE. 

No  —  thank  you,  no. 

THERESA. 

[Aside."]     What  is  the  matter  with  her  ? 

[Exit. 

Enter  Mrs.  Schwartze. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Well,  Marie,  whatever  happens  I  Ve  put  on 
my  other  cap,  —  the  one  with  the  ribbons.  Is 
it  straight? 


Magda.  49 

MARIE. 

Yes,  mamma  dear,  very  nice. 

MRS.   SCHWARTZE. 

Has  n't  Aunt  Frankie  come  up  yet? 

MARIE. 

No. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Heavens  !  I  forgot  the  two  gentlemen  en- 
tirely. And  papa  has  locked  himself  up,  and 
will  hear  nothing  and  see  nothing.  Oh,  if  the 
General  should  be  offended  !  It  is  our  most 
aristocratic  connection.  That  would  be  a  mis- 
fortune indeed. 

MARIE. 

Oh,  mamma  dear,  when  he  hears  what  is  the 
matter ! 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Yes,  yes,  I  know.  And  the  pastor  has  not 
come  either.  Marie,  one  minute.  If  she  should 
ask  you  — 

MARIE. 

Who? 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Why,  Magda. 

MARIE. 

Magda ! 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

What  am  I  to  you,  Marie  ?  They  call  it  step- 
mother.    I  'm  more  than  that,  am  I  not? 

4 


^o  Magda. 

MARIE. 

Certainly,  mamma  dear. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

You  see,  then  I  could  not  get  used  to  having 
two  such  big  daughters.  But  it 's  all  right  now  ? 
[Marie  nods.'\     And  we  do  love  each  other? 

MARIE. 

Very  much,  mamma  dear.     \_She  kisses  herJ] 
Enter  Franziska. 

FRANZISKA. 

\_Irritabiy.']  One  's  always  disturbing  these 
affecting  tableaux  ! 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

What  did  the  General  say? 

FRANZISKA. 

The  General?  H'm,  he  was  angry  enough. 
*'  To  leave  us  alone  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  that 's 
nice  courtesy,"  he  said.     And  I  think  myself — 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

\^To  Marie,  very  sadly. "]  There,  what  did  I 
tell  you? 

FRANZISKA. 

Well,  this  time  I  smoothed  the  thing  over,  so 
that  the  gentlemen  went  away  in  a  good  humor. 


Magda.  ^i 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Really  !  Oh,  I  thank  you,  Frankie,  a  thousand 
times. 

FRANZISKA. 

Yes,  I  'm  good  enough  to  run  errands  and 
play  the  scullery-maid ;  but  when  it  comes  to 
being  one  of  the  family,  an  old  aunt  with  her 
heart  full  of  love  — 

MARIE, 

Who  has  offended  you,  Aunt  Frankie  ? 

FRANZISKA. 

Yes,  that 's  very  fine.  But  a  little  while  ago, 
when  I  was  so  upset,  no  one  troubled  himself 
about  me  one  bit.  To  guarantee  an  income  so 
that  our  little  miss  can  be  married,  I  am — 

MARIE. 

Aunt  Frankie  ! 

FRANZISKA. 

But  as  long  as  I  live  — 

MRS.   SCHWARTZE. 

What  are  you  talking  about  ? 

FRANZISKA. 

We  know,  we  two.  And  to-day.  Who 
brought  back  your  daughter  to  you? 


52  Magda. 

MRS.   SCHWARTZE. 

But  she  has  n't  yet  — 

FRANZISKA. 

I  brought  back  your  daughter  to  you.  And 
who  thanks  me  for  it?  And  who  recognizes 
that  I  have  pardoned  her?  For  I  have  par- 
doned her  [weeping]  everything  ! 

Enter  Theresa,  in  great  excitement, 

MARIE. 

What  is  it,  Theresa? 

THERESA. 

I  am  so  frightened  — 

MARIE. 

What's  the  matter? 

THERESA. 

The  carriage  — 

MARIE. 

What  carriage  ? 

THERESA. 

The  same  as  last  night. 

MARIE. 

Is  it  there  ?  Is  it  there  ?  [Runs  to  the  win- 
dow.'] Mamma,  mamma,  come,  she  's  there  — 
the  carriage  — 


Magda.  ^2 


MRS.   SCHWARTZE. 

Why,  there  is  a  carriage. 

MARIE. 

[^Beating  on  the  door  at  the  kft.']  Papa,  papa  ! 
Come  quickly,  be  merciful,  come  quickly  ! 

\_Exit  Theresa  at  a  sign  frojn  Franziska. 

Enter  Schwartze. 

SCHWARTZE. 

What's  the  matter? 

MARIE. 

Magda  —  the  carriage  1 

SCHWARTZE. 

Good  God  !     [^Hurries  to  the  window. j^ 

MARIE. 

Look  —  look  !  She  's  standing  up  !  She  's 
trying  to  look  into  the  windows.  [  Clapping  her 
hands ^     Papa  !  papa  ! 

SCHWARTZE. 

What  is  it  you  have  to  say? 

MARIE. 

{Frightened?^     I  ?     Nothing. 


54  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Perhaps  you  were  going  to  say,  "  She  stood 
before  your  door  and  you  would  not  open  it." 
Eh? 

MARIE. 

Yes,  yes. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Do  you  hear,  wife?  She  stands  before  our 
door.  Shall  we  —  in  spite  of  our  pride — shall 
we  call  her  in  ? 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Oh,  Leopold,  since  everybody  thinks  so  much 
of  her  — 

MARIE. 

Ah  !     She  's  driving  away  I 

SCHWARTZE. 

No,  no,  she  's  not.  Come,  we  will  bring  her 
to  you. 

FRANZISKA. 

Yes,  yes,  bring  her  to  me,  too. 

\_Exii  ScHWARTZE  and  Mrs.  Schwartze. 

MARIE. 

She 's  sitting  back  again  !  If  only  the  car- 
riage does  n't  —  What  a  long  time  they  are  ! 
They  must  have  got  downstairs.  {Frightened^ 
almost  beside  herself. "l  There  —  there  —  oh, 
don't  go  away  !     Magda  !     Magda  ! 


Magda.  5^ 


FRANZISKA. 

Don't  scream  so  !     What 's  the  matter  ? 

MARIE. 

She  's  looking  round.  She 's  seen  them.  She  's 
stopping.  She  's  bursting  open  the  door.  She 's 
jumped  out !  Now  !  Now  !  She  's  in  father's 
arms  !  \_Covers  her  face  and  sobs.']  Oh,  Aunt 
Frankie  !     Aunt  Frankie  ! 

FRANZISKA. 

What  else  could  a  father  do  ?  Since  I  have 
forgiven  her,  he  could  not  —  he  could  not  hold 
out  — 

MARIE. 

She  's  between  father  and  mother.  Oh,  how 
grand  she  is  !  She  's  coming  —  she  's  coming. 
What  a  homely  little  thing  I  shall  seem  beside 
her  !  Oh,  I  am  so  frightened  !  \^Leans  against 
the  wall,  left.  A  pause.  Voices  of  Magda  and 
her  parents  are  heard  outside^ 

Enter  Magda,  brilliantly  dressed,  with  a  large 
mantle,  and  a  Spanish  veil  on  her  head. 
She  embraces  Marie. 

magda. 

My  puss  !  My  little  one  !  How  my  little 
one  has  grown  !  My  pet  —  my  —  \_kissing  her 
passionately].  But  what 's  the  matter?  You  're 
dizzy.     Come,  sit  down.     No,   no,  please   sit 


^6  Magda. 

down.  Now.  Yes,  you  must.  [  Places  Marie 
in  an  arm-chair.'\  Dear  little  hands,  dear 
little  hands  !  \_Kneels  before  her,  kissing  and 
stroking  her  hands.']  But  they  're  rough  and 
red,  and  my  darling  is  pale.  There  are  rings 
round  her  eyes. 

SCHWARTZE. 

[^Lays  his  hand  lightly  on  her  shoulder.'] 
Magda,  we  are  here  too. 

MAGDA. 

Yes,  yes  —  I  'm  entirely  —  [Standing  up, 
affectionately.]  Dear  old  papa !  How  white 
you  have  become  !  Dear  papa  !  \_7'aking  his 
hand.]  But  what 's  the  matter  with  your  hand? 
It 's  trembling. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Nothing,  my  child.     Don't  ask  about  it. 

MAGDA. 

H'm  —  and  you  've  grown  handsomer  with 
the  years.  I  can't  look  at  you  enough.  I  shall 
be  very  proud  with  such  a  handsome  papa. 
But  she  must  get  better  [indicating  Marie]. 
She's  as  white  as  milk.  Do  you  take  iron? 
Eh?  You  must  take  iron?  [tenderly].  Just 
to  think  that  I  am  at  home  !  It  seems  hke 
a  fairy  tale.  It  was  a  capital  idea  of  yours  to 
call  me  back  without  any  explanations  —  senza 
complimenti  —  for  we  've  outgrown  those  silly 
misunderstandings  long  ago. 


Magda.  57 

SCHWARTZE. 

Misunderstandings ! 

MAGDA. 

I  came  near  driving  away.  Would  not  that 
have  been  bad  of  me  ?  But  you  must  acknowl- 
edge, I  have  scratched  at  the  door  —  very 
quietly,  very  modestly  —  like  Lady  when  she 
had  run  away.  Where  is  Lady?  Her  place  is 
empty.     [  Whistles.'] 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Why,  she  's  been  dead  seven  years  ! 

MAGDA. 

Ah,  povera  bestia  —  yes,  I  forgot.  And, 
mamma  !  — yes,  mamma  !  I  have  n't  looked  at 
you  yet.  How  pretty  you  've  grown  !  You  used 
to  have  an  air  of  belated  youth  about  you  that 
was  not  becoming.  But  now  you  're  a  dear, 
old  little  mother.  One  wants  to  lay  one's  head 
quietly  in  your  lap.  I  will,  too.  It  '11  do  me 
good.  Ah,  what  fine  quarrels  we  used  to  have  ! 
I  was  a  contrary  little  beast.  And  you  held  up 
your  end.  But  now  we  '11  smoke  the  pipe  of 
peace,  sha'n't  we? 

MRS.  SCHWARZE. 

You  *re  joking  with  me,  Magda. 


^8  Magda. 


MAGDA. 


Sha'n't  I  ?  May  n't  I  ?  There,  there,  —  pure 
love,  pure  love.  We  will  have  nothing  but 
love.     We  shall  be  the  best  of  friends. 

FRANZISKA. 

[  Who  has  for  a  long  iime  tried  to  attract  at- 
tention.']    And  we  also,  eh,  my  dear  Magda? 

MAGDA. 

Tiens,  tiens  f  [Examines  her  critically 
through  her  lorgnette.']  Same  as  ever.  Always 
active?  Always,  as  of  old,  the  centre  of  the 
family  ? 

FRANZISKA. 

Oh  — 

MAGDA. 

Well,  give  us  your  hand  !  There.  I  never 
could  bear  you,  and  shall  never  learn,  I  'm . 
afraid.     That  runs  in  the  blood,  doesn't  it? 

FRANZISKA. 

I  have  already  forgiven  you. 

MAGDA. 

Really  !  Such  magnanimity  !  I  hardly  — 
Do  you  really  forgive  everything?  From  top 
to  bottom?  Even  that  you  stirred  up  my 
mother  against  me  before  she  ever  came  into 
the  house  ?  That  you  made  my  father  —  \_Puts 
her  hand  to  her  lips."]  Meglio  tacere  /  Meglio 
tacere  / 


Magda.  59 

MARIE. 

[^Interrupting.']    For  Heaven's  sake,  Magda  ! 

MAGDA. 

Yes,  my  darling  —  nothing,  not  a  word. 

FRANZISKA. 

She  has  a  fine  presence  ! 

MAGDA. 

And  now  let  me  look  about  me  !  Ah,  every- 
thing 's  just  the  same.  Not  a  speck  of  dust 
has  moved. 

MRS.   SCHWARTZE. 

I  hope,  Magda,  that  you  won't  find  any  specks 
of  dust. 

MAGDA. 

I  'm  sure  of  that,  mammina.  That  was  n't 
what  I  meant.  Twelve  years !  Without  a 
trace  !  Have  I  dreamed  all  that  comes  be- 
tween ? 

SCHWARTZE. 

You  will  have  a  great  deal  to  tell  us,  Magda. 

MAGDA. 

\Starting7\  What?  Well,  we  will  see,  we 
will  see.  Now  I  should  like  —  What  would 
I  like  ?  I  must  sit  still  for  a  moment.  It  all 
comes  over  me  so.  When  I  think —  From 
that  door  to  the  window,  from  this  table  to  the 
old  bureau, — that  was  once  my  world. 


6o  Magda. 


SCHWARTZE. 


A  world,  my  child,  which  one  never  outgrows, 
which  one  never  should  outgrow  —  you  have 
always  held  to  that? 

MAGDA. 

What  do  you  mean  ?  And  what  a  face  you 
make  over  it !  Yes,  yes,  though  —  that  question 
came  at  the  right  time.  I  have  been  a  fool ! 
I  have  been  a  fool !  My  dear  old  papa,  this 
happiness  will  be  short. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Why? 

MAGDA. 

What  do  you  think  of  me  ?  Do  you  think  I 
am  as  free  as  I  appear?  I  'm  a  weary,  worn- 
out  drudge  who  is  only  fortunate  when  the  lash 
is  on  her  back. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Whose  drudge  ?     What  lash  } 

MAGDA. 

That  I  can't  explain,  dear  father.  You  don't 
know  my  Hfe.  You  probably  would  n't  under- 
stand it,  either.  Every  day,  every  hour  has  its 
work  laid  out.  Ah,  well,  now  I  must  go  back 
to  the  hotel. 

MARIE. 

No,  Magda,  no. 


Magda.  6i 


MAGDA. 

Yes,  puss,  yes.  There  have  been  six  or 
seven  men  there  for  ever  so  long,  waiting  for 
an  audience.  But  I  tell  you  what,  1  must  have 
you  to-night.     Can't  you  sleep  with  me  ? 

SCHWARTZE. 

Of  course.  That  is  —  what  do  you  mean  — 
sleep  where? 

MAGDA. 

At  the  hotel. 

SCHWARTZE. 

What?  You  won't  stay !  You  '11  put  such 
an  affront  on  us? 

MAGDA. 

What  are  you  thinking  of?  I  have  a  whole 
retinue  with  me. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Your  father's  house  is  the  place  for  this 
retinue. 

MAGDA. 

I  don't  know.  It  is  rather  lively.  First, 
there 's  Bobo,  my  parrot,  a  darling,  —  he 
would  n't  be  bad ;  then  my  pet  maid,  Giulietta, 
a  little  demon,  —  I  can't  live  without  her  ;  then 
my  courier,  —  he  's  a  tyrant,  and  the  terror  of 
landlords ;  and  then  we  must  n't  forget  my 
teacher. 

FRANZISKA. 

He  's  a  very  old  man,  I  hope. 


62  Magda. 

MAGDA. 

No,  he  's  a  very  young  man. 

SCHWARTZE. 

{After  a  silence.']     Then  you  must  have  for- 
gotten your  —  your  dame  d'honneur. 

MAGDA. 

What  dame  d^honneur? 

SCHWARTZE. 

You    can't    travel    about    from   country  to 
country  with  a  young  man  without  — 


MAGDA. 

Ah  !  does  that  disquiet  you  ?  I  can,  —  be 
quite  easy,  —  I  can.  In  my  world  we  don't 
trouble  ourselves  about  such  things. 

SCHWARTZE. 

What  world  is  that? 

MAGDA. 

The  world  I  rule,  father  dear.  I  have  no 
other.  There,  whatever  I  do  is  right  because 
I  do  it. 

SCHWARTZE. 

That  is  an  enviable  position.  But  you  are 
still  young.  There  must  be  cases  when  some 
direction  —  in  short,  whose  advice  do  you  follow 
in  your  transactions? 


Magda.  6^ 


MAGDA. 

There  is  no  one  who  has  the  right  to  advise 
me,  papa  dear. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Well,  my  child,  from  this  hour  your  old 
father  claims  that  right.  Theresa  !  [Theresa 
answers  from  outside. '\  Go  to  the  German 
House  and  bring  the  baggage  — 

magda. 

\_Entreatingly.'\  Pardon,  father  dear,  you 
forget  that  my  orders  are  necessary. 

SCHWARTZE. 

What?  —  Yes,  yes,  I  forgot.  Do  what  you 
will,  my  daughter. 

MARIE. 

Magda  —  oh,  Magda  ! 

MAGDA. 

\Taking  her  mantle.']  Be  patient,  darling. 
We  '11  have  a  talk  soon  all  to  our  two  selves. 
And  you  '11  all  come  to  breakfast  with  me,  won't 
you  ?  We  can  have  a  good  chat  and  love  each 
other  1  —  so  much  ! 

MRS.   SCHWARTZE. 

We  —  breakfast  with  you  ? 

MAGDA. 

\  want  to  have  you  all  under  my  roof. 


64  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

The  roof  of  a  hotel  ? 

MAGDA. 

Yes,  papa  dear,  I  have  no  other  home. 

SCHWARTZE. 

And  this? 

MARIE. 

Don't  you  see  how  you  've  hurt  him? 

Enter  the  Pastor.  He  stops,  and  seems  to 
control  strong  emotion.  Magda  examines 
him  with  her  lorgnette. 

NUGDA. 

He  too  !     L(2t  me  see. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Just  think.     She  is  going  away  again  1 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

I  don't  know  whether  I  am  known  to  the 
lady. 

MAGDA. 

\^Mockingly7\  You  're  too  modest,  Pastor. 
And  now  since  I  have  seen  you  all  —  \_Puts  on 
her  mantle^ 

SCHWARTZE. 

\  Quickly,  aside. 1     You  must  keep  her. 


Magda.  65 


HEFFTERDINGT. 

/?     If  you  are  powerless,  how  can  I  — 

SCHWARTZE. 

Try! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

\Constraining  himself,  with  embarrassment.'] 
Pardon  me,  madam,  it  seems  very  officious  of 
me  —  if  I  —  will  you  give  me  a  few  moments' 
interview  ? 

MAGDA. 

What  have  we  two  to  say  to  each  other,  my 
dear  pastor? 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Oh,  do,  please !  He  knows  best  about 
everything. 

MAGDA. 

[Ironically.']     Indeed ! 

MARIE. 

I  may  never  ask  you  for  anything  again,  but 
do  this  one  thing  for  my  sake  ! 

MAGDA. 

\Patting  her  and  looking  from  one  to  the 
other.]  Well,  the  child  asks  so  prettily.  Pastor, 
I  am  at  your  service.  [Marie  thanks  her 
silently.] 

franziska. 

[Aside  to  Mrs.  ScmvARTZE.]     Now  he  '11  give 
her  a  lecture.     Come. 
5 


66  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

You  were  once  the  cause  of  my  sending  her 
rrom  my  home.  To-day  you  must  see  to  it  that 
<he  remains.     [Heffterdingt  expresses  doubt.'\ 

SCHWARTZiI. 

Marie  ! 

MARIE. 

Ye"^,  papa. 

\_Exit  ScHWARTZE,  Mrs.  Schwartze, 
Franziska,  and  Marie. 

MAGDA. 

\Sits  down  and  examines  him  through  her  lor- 
gnette.'] So  this  is  the  man  who  undertakes  by 
a  five  minutes'  interview  entirely  and  absolutely 
to  break  my  will.  That  they  believe  in  your 
ability  to  do  it  shows  me  that  you  are  a  king  in 
your  own  dominions.  "  I  make  obeisance.  And 
now  let  me  see  you  ply  your  arts. 

heffterdingt. 

I  understand  no  arts,  madam,  and  would 
avail  myself  of  none.  If  they  put  some  trust 
in  me  here,  it  is  because  they  knew  that  I  seek 
nothing  for  myself 

MAGDA. 

\_lronically.'\  That  has  always  been  the 
case? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

No,  madam.  I  had,  once  in  my  life,  a  strong, 
an  intense  desire.     It  was  to  have  you  for  my 


Magda.  67 

wife.  I  need  only  look  at  you  to  see  that  I  was 
presumptuous.  Since  then  I  have  put  the  wish 
away  from  me. 

MAGDA. 

Ah,  Pastor,  I  believe  you  're  paying  court  to 
me  now. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Madam,  if  it  were  not  discourteous  — 

MAGDA. 

Oh,  then  even  a  shepherd  of  souls  may  be 
discourteous ! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

I  should  commiserate  you  on  the  atmosphere 
which  has  surrounded  you. 

MAGDA. 

\_Witk  mocking  superiority.']  Really?  What 
do  you  know  about  my  atmosphere  ? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

It  seems  to  me  that  it  has  made  you  forget 
that  serious  men  are  to  be  taken  seriously. 

MAGDA. 

Ah  !  [^Rising.']  Well,  then  I  will  take  you  seri- 
ously ;  and  I  will  tell  you  that  you  have  always 
been  unbearable  to  me,  with  your  well-acted 
simplicity,  your  droning  mildness,  your —  Since, 
however,  you  condescended  to  cast  your  eyes 
on  my  worthlessness  and  drove  me  from  home 
with  your  suit,  —  since  then,  I  have  hated  you. 


68  Magda. 


HEFFTERDINGT. 

It  seems  to  me  that  according  to  this  I  was 
the  foundation  of  your  greatness. 

MAGDA. 

You  're  right  there.  Here  I  was  parched 
and  stifled.  No,  no,  I  don't  hate  you.  Why 
should  I  hate  you  so  much  ?  It 's  all  so  far,  so 
very  far,  behind  me.  If  you  only  knew  how 
far !  You  have  sat  here  day  after  day  in  this 
heavy  close  air,  reeking  of  lavender,  tobacco, 
and  cough  mixture,  while  I  have  felt  the  storm 
breaking  about  my  head.  Pastor,  if  you  had  a 
suspicion  of  what  life  really  is,  —  of  the  trial  of 
strength,  of  the  taste  of  guilt,  of  conquest,  and 
of  pleasure,  —  you  would  find  yourself  very  com- 
ical with  your  clerical  shop-talk.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
Pardon  me,  I  don't  believe  such  a  laugh  has 
rung  through  this  respectable  house  for  twelve 
years ;  for  there 's  no  one  here  who  knows 
how  to  laugh.     Is  there,  eh  ? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

No,  I  fear  not. 

MAGDA. 

Fear,  you  say.  That  sounds  as  though  you 
deprecated  it.     But  don't  you  hate  laughter? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Most  of  us  cannot  laugh,  madam. 


Magda.  69 

MAGDA. 

And  to  those  who  could,  laughter  is  sin. 
You  might  laugh  yourself.  What  have  you  to 
be  solemn  about?  You  need  not  look  at  the 
world  with  this  funereal  mien.  Surely  you  have 
a  little  blond  wife  at  home  who  knits  indus- 
triously, and  half  a  dozen  curly  heads  around 
her,  of  course.     It 's  always  so  in  parsonages. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

I  have  remained  single,  madam. 

MAGDA. 

Ah !  [SiVence.^  Did  I  hurt  you  so  much, 
then? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Let  that  be,  shall  we  not  ?     It  is  so  long  ago. 

MAGDA. 

\_Letting  her  mantle  fall.']  And  your  work,  — 
does  not  that  bring  happiness  enough  ? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Thank  God,  it  does.  But  if  one  takes  it 
really  in  earnest,  one  cannot  live  only  for  one's 
self;  at  least,  I  cannot.  One  cannot  exult  in 
the  fulness  of  one's  personality,  as  you  would 
call  it.  And  then  many  hearts  are  opened  to 
me  —  One  sees  too  many  wounds  there,  that 
one  cannot  heal,  to  be  quite  happy. 


yo  Magda. 

MAGDA. 

You  're  a  remarkable  man —  I  don't  know  — 
if  I  could  only  get  rid  of  the  idea  that  you  're 
insincere. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Will  you  let  me  ask  you  one  question  before 
you  go  ? 

MAGDA. 

Well ! 

HEFFTERDINGT, 

It  is  about  an  hour  since  you  entered  this 
house,  your  home  —  no,  not  so  much.  I  could 
not  have  been  waiting  for  you  nearly  as  long  as 
that. 

MAGDA. 

For  me  ?     You  ?     Where  ? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

In  the  corridor  outside  your  room. 

MAGDA. 

What  did  you  want  there  ? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

My  errand  was  useless,  for  now  you  are  here. 

MAGDA. 

Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  came  for  me  — 
you  to  whom  I  —  If  any  one  had  an  interest 
in  keeping  me  away,  it  was  you. 


Magda.  yi 


HEFFTERDINGT. 

Are  you  accustomed  to  regard  everything 
which  those  about  you  do  as  the  resuU  of  selfish 
interest  ? 

MAGDA. 

Of  course.  It  's  so  with  me  !  [_Sfruck  by  a 
new  thought^  Or  perhaps  you —  No,  I  'm  not 
justified  in  that  assumption.  \Sha7-ply.'\  Ah, 
such  nonsense  !  it  is  only  fit  for  fairy  tales. 
Well,  Pastor,  I  '11  own  that  I  like  you  now 
better,  much  better  than  of  old  when  you  — 
what  shall  I  say?  —  made  an  honorable  proposal. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

H'm! 

MAGDA. 

If  you  could  only  end  it  all  with  a  laugh  — 
this  stony  visage  of  yours  is  so  unfriendly —  one 
is  quite  sconcertata.  What  do  you  say  ?  Je 
ne  trouve  pas  le  mot. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Pardon  me,  may  I  ask  the  question  now? 

MAGDA. 

Good  Lord,  how  inquisitive  the  holy  man  is  ! 
And  you  don't  see  that  I  was  coquetting  with 
you  a  little.  For,  to  have  been  a  man's  fate,  — 
that  flatters  us  women,  —  we  are  grateful  for  it. 
You  see  I  have  acquired  some  art  meanwhile. 
Well,  out  with  your  question  ! 


y2  Magda. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Why —  why  did  you  come  home? 

MAGDA. 

Ah! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Was  it  not  homesickness? 

MAGDA. 

No.  Well,  perhaps  a  very  little.  I'll  tell 
you.  When  I  received  the  invitation  to  assist 
at  this  festival  —  why  they  did  me  the  honor,  I 
don't  know  —  a  very  curious  feeling  began  to 
seethe  within  me,  —  half  curiosity  and  half  shy- 
ness, half  melancholy  and  half  defiance,  — which 
said :  "  Go  home  incognito.  Go  in  the  twi- 
light and  stand  before  the  paternal  house  where 
for  seventeen  years  you  lived  in  bondage.  There 
look  upon  what  you  were.  But  if  they  recog- 
nize you,  show  them  that  beyond  their  narrow 
virtues  there  may  be  something  true  and  good." 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Only  defiance  then  ? 

MAGDA. 

At  first,  perhaps.  Once  on  the  way,  though, 
my  heart  beat  most  wonderfully,  as  it  used  to 
do  when  I  'd  learnt  my  lesson  badly.  And  I 
always  did  learn  my  lessons  badly.  When  I 
stood  before  the  hotel,  the  German  House,  — 
just  think,  the  German  House,  where  the  great 


Magda.  73 

officials  and  the  great  artists  stayed,  —  there  I 
had  again  the  abject  reverence  as  of  old,  as  if 
I  were  unworthy  to  step  on  the  old  threshold. 
I  entirely  forgot  that  I  was  now  myself  a  so- 
called  great  artist.  Since  then,  every  evening  I 
have  stolen  by  the  house,  — very  quietly,  very 
humbly,  —  always  almost  in  tears. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

And  nevertheless  you  are  going  away. 


MAGDA. 
HEFFTERDINGT. 


I  must. 
But  — 

MAGDA. 

Don't  ask  me  why.     I  must. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Has  any  one  offended  your  pride  ?     Has  any 
one  said  a  word  of  your  needing  forgiveness? 

MAGDA. 

Not  yet  —  or,  yes,  if  you  count  the  old  cat. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

What  is  there  in  the  world  which  draws  you 
away  again  after  an  hour? 

MAGDA. 

I  will  tell  you.     I  felt  it  the  first  minute  I 
came.     The  paternal  authority  already  stretches 


74  Magda. 

its  net   over   me  again,  and  the  yoke  stands 
ready  beneath  which  I  must  bow. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

But  there  is  neither  yoke  nor  net  here.  Do 
not  fear  shadows.  Here  are  only  wide-opened 
arms  which  wait  to  clasp  the  lost  daughter  to 
the  empty  breast. 

MAGDA. 

Oh,  I  beg  you,  none  of  that.  I  do  not  in- 
tend to  furnish  a  pendant  to  the  prodigal  son. 
If  I  came  back  as  a  daughter,  as  a  lost  daugh- 
ter, I  should  not  hold  my  head  up  before  you 
as  I  do ;  I  should  grovel  in  the  dust  in  full  con- 
sciousness of  all  my  sins.  [  IFit/i  growing  ex- 
citement^ And  that  I  will  not  do  —  that  I 
cannot  do  —  for  I  am  what  I  am,  and  I  cannot 
be  another.  \Sadl)\\  And  therefore  I  have  no 
home  —  therefore  1  must  go  forth  again  — 
therefore  — 

Enter  Mrs.  Schwartze. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

For  Heaven's  sake,  hush  ! 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Excuse  me,  Pastor,  I  only  wanted  to  know 
about  supper.  \_Iniploringly  to  Magda,  who  sits 
turned  away  with  her  hands  before  her  face.'\ 
We  happen  to  have  a  warm  joint  to-day.  You 
know,  Pastor,  the  gentlemen  of  the  card-club 
were  to   be  with   us.     Now,   Magda,    whether 


Magda.  75 

you  're   going  away   or   not,    can't    you    eat  a 
mouthful  in  your  father's  house? 

HEFFTERDINGT.     - 

Don't  ask  now,  my  dear  madam. 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Oh,  if  I  'm  interrupting  —  I  only  thought  — 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Later. 

MARIE. 

\_Appearing  in  the  doorway^  Will  she  stay  ? 
[Magda  shrinks  at  the  sound  of  the  voice."] 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

'Sh  !         [_£xit  Mrs.  Schwartze  and  Marie. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

You  have  no  home.  Miss  Magda?  Did  you 
hear  the  old  mother  beseeching  and  alluring 
with  the  best  that  she  has,  though  it 's  only  a 
poor  dish?  Did  you  hear  Marie's  voice  trem- 
bling with  tears  in  the  fear  that  I  should  not 
prevail?  They  trust  me  too  much  ;  they  think 
I  only  need  to  speak  the  word.  They  don't 
suspect  how  helpless  I  stand  here  before  you. 
Look  !  Behind  that  door  are  three  people  in  a 
fever  of  sorrow  and  love.  If  you  cross  this 
threshold,  you  rob  each  of  them  of  so  much 
life.     And  you  have  no  home  ? 


^6  Magda. 

MAGDA. 

If  I  have  one,  it  is  not  here. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

\_E7nbarrassed.']  Perhaps  —  Nevertheless 
you  should  not  go.  Only  a  few  days,  —  just 
not  to  take  away  the  idea  that  you  belong  here. 
So  much  you  owe  to  them  ! 

MAGDA. 

[^SadlyJ]  I  owe  nothing  now  to  any  one 
here. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

No?  Really  nothing?  Then  I  must  tell  you 
about  a  certain  day,  —  eleven  years  ago  now. 
I  was  called  into  this  house  in  haste,  for  the 
Colonel  was  dying.  When  I  came,  he  lay  there 
stiff  and  motionless,  his  face  drawn  and  white  ; 
one  eye  was  already  closed,  in  the  other  still 
flickered  a  little  Ufe.  He  tried  to  speak,  but 
his  lips  only  quivered  and  mumbled. 

MAGDA. 

What  had  happened? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

What  had  happened?  I  will  tell  you.  He 
had  just  received  a  letter  in  which  his  eldest 
daughter  badt  him  farewell. 

MAGDA. 

My  God  1 


Magda.  77 


HEFFTERDINGT. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  he  recovered  from 
the  apoplectic  stroke.  Only  a  trembling  in  the 
right  arm,  which  you  perhaps  have  noticed,  now 
remains. 

MAGDA. 

That  is  indeed  a  debt  I  owe. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Ah,  if  that  were  all.  Miss  Magda !  Pardon 
me,  I  call  you  by  the  name  I  used  long  ago. 
It  springs  to  my  lips. 

MAGDA. 

Call  me  what  you  like.     Go  on. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

The  necessary  result  followed.  When  he 
received  his  discharge,  —  he  will  not  believe  in 
the  cause,  don't  speak  to  him  of  it,  —  then  his 
mind  broke  down. 

MAGDA. 

Yes,  yes ;  that  is  my  debt  too. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Then  you  see,  Miss  Magda,  began  my  work. 
If  I  speak  of  it,  you  must  not  think  I  am  plum- 
ing myself  on  it  to  you.  What  good  would  that 
do  me?  For  a  long,  long  time  I  nursed  him, 
and  by  degrees  I  saw  his  mind  revive  again. 
First  I  let  him  collect  slugs  from  the  rose- 
bushes. 


7  8  Magda. 

MAGDA. 

[  Wi^A  a  shudder. '\     Ugh  ! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Yes,  SO  far  had  it  gone  ;  then  I  gave  him 
charge  of  some  money,  and  then  I  made  him 
my  assistant  in  the  institutions  with  whose  man- 
agement I  was  intrusted.  There  is  a  hospital 
and  a  soup-kitchen  and  an  infirmary,  and  it 
makes  a  great  deal  to  be  done.  So  he  became 
a  man  once  more.  I  have  tried  to  influence 
your  step-mother  too  ;  not  because  I  was  greedy 
for  power.  Perhaps  you  '11  think  that  of  me. 
In  short,  the  old  tension  between  her  and  Marie 
has  been  slowly  smoothed  away.  Love  and 
confidence  have  descended  upon  the  house. 

MAGDA. 

\Staring  at  him.']  And  why  did  you  do  all 
this? 

HEFrrERDINGT. 

Well,  first  it  is  my  calling.  Then  I  did  it 
for  his  sake,  for  I  love  the  old  man ;  and  above 
all  —  for  —  your  sake. 

[Magda  starts,  and  points  to  herself  inter- 
rogatively.'] 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Yes,  for  your  sake.  For  this  weighed  upon 
me :  The  day  will  come  when  she  will  turn 
homeward,  —  perhaps  as  victor ;  but  perhaps 
also  as  vanquished,  broken  and  ruined  in  body 


Magda.  79 

and  soul —  Pardon  me  these  thoughts,  I  had 
hea'-d  nothing  of  you —  In  either  case  she 
shall  find  a  home  ready  for  her.  That  was  my 
work,  the  work  of  long  years;  and  now  I 
implore  you  not  to  destroy  it. 

MAGDA. 

[/«  anguish.']  If  you  knew  through  what  I 
have  passed,  you  would  not  try  to  keep  me. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

That  is  all  shut  out.  This  is  home.  Let  it 
alone;  forget  it. 

MAGDA. 

How  can  I  forget  it  ?     How  dare  I  ? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Why  should  you  resist  when  all  stretch  their 
hands  out  to  you  in  rejoicing  ?  It 's  very  easy. 
Let  your  heart  speak  when  you  see  all  around 
overflowing  with  love  for  you. 

MAGDA. 

[/«  tears.']  You  make  me  a  child  again. 
[A  pause.] 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Then  you  will  stay? 

MAGDA. 

\Springing  up^  But  they  must  not  question 
me  ! 


8o  Magda. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Must  not  question  you  ? 

MAGDA. 

About  my  life  outside  there.     They  would  n't 
understand,  —  none  of  them  j  not  even  you. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Well,  then,  they  sha'n't. 

MAGDA. 

And  you  will  promise  me,  for  yourself  and 
for  the  others? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Yes,  I  can  promise  it. 

MAGDA. 

[/«  a  stifled  voice.']     Call  them,  then. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

[  Opening  the  door  on  the  le/t.]    She  will  stay. 

Enter  Marie  ;  then  Mrs.  Schwartze,  Fran- 
ziSKA,  and  Schwartze.  Marie  throws  her- 
self joyfully  into  Magda's  arms.  Mrs. 
Schwartze  also  embraces  her. 

SCHWARTZE. 

It  was  your  duty,  my  child. 


Magda.  8 1 


MAGDA. 

Yes,  father.  \She  softly  takes  his  right  hand 
in  both  of  hers,  and  carries  it  tenderly  to  her 
lips.-] 

FRANZISKA. 

Thank  Heaven  !  Now  we  can  have  supper 
at  last !  [  Opens  the  sliding  door  i7ilo  the  dining- 
room.  The  supper-table  is  seen,  all  set,  and 
lighted  brightly  by  a  green-shaded  hanging-lamp^ 

MAGDA. 

\Gazing  at  //.]  Oh,  look !  The  dear  old 
lamp  !     \The  women  go  slowly  out.-] 

SCHWARTZE. 

[^Stretching  out  his  hands."]  This  is  your 
greatest  work,  Pastor. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Oh,  don't,  I  beg  you  1  And  there 's  a  condi- 
tion attached. 

SCHWARTZE. 

A  condition? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

We  must  not  ask  about  her  life. 

SCHWARTZE. 

IStartled.]     What?    What?     I  must  not  — 
6 


82  Magda. 


HEFFTERDINGT. 


No,  no ;  you  must  not  ask  —  you  must  not 
ask — or —  \_Struck  by  a  new  thought.~\  If 
you  do  not  —  yes  —  I  am  sure  she  will  confess 
ever}'thing  herself. 


Magda.  83 


ACT  III. 


Scene  :  the  same.     Morniftg.     On  the  table  at 
the  left,  coffee-service  and  flowers. 

[Mrs.  Schwartze  and  Franziska  discovered."^ 


MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

[^Excitedly."]  Thank  Heaven,  you  've  come. 
Such  a  time  we  've  had  this  morning ! 

FRANZISKA. 

So? 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Just  think,  two  people  have  come  from  the 
hotel,  —  a  gentleman  who  looks  like  a  lord,  and 
a  young  lady  like  a  princess.  They  're  her 
servants. 

FRANZISKA. 

What  extravagance  ! 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

And  they  *re  calling  and  talking  all  over  the 
house,  and  neither  of  them  knows  any  Ger- 
man. And  her  ladyship  ordered  a  warm  bath, 
that  was  not  warm  enough  ;  and  a  cold  douche, 
which    was    not    cold    enough;    and    spirits, 


84  Magda. 

which  she  simply  poured  out  of  the  window  j 
and  toilet  vinegar,  which  we  did  n't  have  at  all. 

FRANZISKA. 

What  demands  !  And  where  is  your  famous 
young  lady? 

MRS.   SCKWARTZE. 

After  her  bath  she  has  gone  back  to  bed 
again. 

FRANZISKA. 

I  would  not  have  such  sloth  in  my  house. 

MRS.   SCHVVARTZE. 

I  shall  tell  her  so.  For  Leopold's  sake  — 
\_Enter  Theresa.]    What  do  you  want,  Theresa? 

THERESA. 

Councillor  von  Keller  —  he  has  sent  his  ser- 
vant here  to  ask  whether  the  Lieutenant  has 
come  yet,  and  what  is  the  young  lady's  answer. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

What  young  lady  ? 

THERESA. 

That 's  what  I  don't  know. 

MRS.   SCHWARTZE. 

Then  just  give  our  regards,  and  say  that  the 
Lieutenant  has  not  come  yet. 


Magda.  85 

FRANZISKA. 

He  is  on  duty  till  twelve.  After  that  he  '11 
come. 

[^£xi^  Theresa.  As  she  opens  the  door,  a  p-eat 
noise  is  heard  in  the  hall,  —  a  man^s  voice 
and  a  woman's  disputing  in  Italian^ 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Listen  to  that !  \^Speaking  outside^  Just 
you  wait.  Your  Signora  '11  be  here  soon. 
\_Shuts  the  door.~\  Ah  !  And  now,  breakfast. 
What  do  you  think  she  drinks? 

FRANZISKA. 

Why,  coffee. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

No. 

FRANZISKA. 

Tea,  then? 

MRS.   SCHWARTZE. 

No. 

FRANZISKA. 

Then  it  must  be  chocolate  ! 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

No ;  coffee  and  chocolate  mixed. 

FRANZISKA. 

Horrible  1    But  it  must  be  good. 


86  Magda. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

And  yesterday  half  a  dozen  trunks  came 
from  the  hotel,  and  as  many  more  are  still  there. 
Ah,  what  there  is  in  them  all !  One  whole 
trunk  for  hats  !  A  peignoir  of  real  point,  and 
open-work  stockings  with  gold  embroidery,  and 
[/«  a  7vhisper\  silk  chemises  — 

FRANZISKA. 

What?     Silk  — 


Yes. 


MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 


FRANZISKA. 


[  With  a  gesture  of  horror ^^  It  is  simply 
sinful. 

Enter  Magda,    in    brilliafit    morning    toilette^ 
speaking  outside  as  she  opens  the  door, 

MAGDA. 

Ma  che  cosa  volete  voi  ?  Perchi  non  aspet- 
tate,  finche  vi  commando  ?     Ha  ? 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Now  they  are  getting  their  share  1 

MAGDA. 

No,  no  ;  ^  tempo/  \_Shutting  the  door."]  Va^ 
bruto  I  Good-morning,  mamma.  \Kisses  her.'\ 
I  'm  a  late  sleeper,  eh  ?  Ah,  good-morning, 
Aunt  Frankie.     In  a  good  humor  ?     So  am  I. 


Magda.  87 


MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

What  did  the  strange  gentleman  want, 
Magda  ? 

MAGDA. 

Stupid  beast !  He  wanted  to  know  when  I 
was  going  away,  the  idiot !  How  can  I  tell  ? 
\_Patting  her.'l  Eh,  juamma  mia  ?  Oh,  chil- 
dren, I  slept  like  the  dead.  My  ear  on  the  pil- 
low, and  off !  And  the  douche  was  so  nice  and 
cold.  I  feel  so  strong.  Allots,  cousine  I  Hop  ! 
\Seizes  Franziska  by  the  waist  and  jumps  her 
into  the  air.'] 

franziska. 

[^Furiously.']     What  do  you  — 

magda. 
[Haughtily.]     Eh? 

FRANZISKA. 

[Cringingly].     You  are  so  facetious. 

magda. 
Am  I?     [^Clapping  her  hands.]     Breakfast! 
Enter  Marie,  with  a  tray  of  coffee  things, 

marie. 
Good-morning. 

franziska. 
Good-morning,  my  child. 


88  Magda. 


MAGDA. 


I  'm  dying  of  hunger.  Ah  !  \^Pats  her  stom- 
ach.    Marie  kisses  Franziska's  hand.'] 

MAGDA. 

\^Taking  off  the  cover,  with  unction.']  Deli- 
cious !  One  would  know  Giulietta  was  in  the 
house. 

FRANZISKA. 

She  has  made  noise  enough,  at  least. 

MAGDA. 

Oh,  she  could  n't  live  without  a  good  row. 
And  when  she  gets  too  excited,  she  quietly 
throws  a  plate  at  your  head.  I  'm  accustomed 
to  it.     What  is  papa  doing? 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

He  's  making  his  excuses  to  the  members  of 
the  Committee. 

MAGDA. 

Is  your  life  still  half  made  up  of  excuses? 
What  sort  of  a  committee  is  it  ? 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

It 's  the  Christian  Aid  Society.  They  should 
have  had  a  meeting  here  this  morning  in  our 
house.  Now  we  thought  it  would  not  do.  It 
would  look  as  if  we  wanted  to  introduce  you. 


Magda.  89 

FRANZISKA. 

But,  Augusta,  now  it  will  look  as  if  your 
daughter  were  more  important  to  you  — 

MAGDA. 

Well,  I  hope  she  is  ! 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Of  course  !  But  —  oh  dear,  you  don't  know 
what  sort  of  people  they  are.  They  are  de- 
serving of  great  respect.  For  instance,  there  's 
Mrs.  General  von  Klebs.  \_Proudly^  We  are 
friends  of  hers. 

MAGDA. 

[  With  sham  respectl\     Really  ? 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Now,  they'll  probably  come  to-morrow. 
Then  you  '11  meet,  besides,  some  other  pious 
and  aristocratic  ladies  whose  patronage  gains 
us  a  great  deal  of  influence.  I  'm  curious  to 
see  how  they'll  hke  you. 

MAGDA. 

How  I  shall  like  them,  you  should  say. 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Yes  —  that  is  —  but  we  're  talking  and 
talking  — 

MARIE. 

[Jumping  up.'\     Oh,  excuse  me,  mamma. 


^o  Magda, 

MAGDA. 

No,  you  must  stay  here. 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Yes,  Magda ;  but  about  your  trunks  at  the 
hotel,  —  I  am  constantly  on  the  rack  for  fear 
something  should  be  left. 

MAGDA. 

Send  for  them,  then,  children. 

FRANZISKA. 

[Asi'df  to  Mrs.  Schwartze.J     Now  I  '11  ques- 
tion her  thoroughly,  Augusta.     Leave  us  alone. 
\_Exit  Mrs.  Schwartze. 

FRANZISKA. 

\Sitting  down,  with  importance.']  And  now, 
my  dear  Magda,  you  must  tell  your  old  aunt  all 
about  it. 

MAGDA. 

Eh?  Ah,  look  here,  mamma  needs  help. 
Go  on,  quick  !    Make  yourself  useful. 

FRANZISKA. 

[  Viciously.']    If  you  command  it. 

MAGDA. 

Oh,  I  have  only  to  request. 


Magda.  ^i 


FRANZISKA. 


[^J^ising."]    It  seems  to  me  that  your  requests 
are  somewhat  forcible. 


MAGDA. 


l^Laughing."]     Perhaps. 

\_Exit  Franziska  in  a  rage. 


Oh,  Magda 


MARIE. 


MAGDA. 


Yes,  sweet.  That 's  the  way  to  go  through 
the  world,  —  bend  or  break ;  that  is,  I  never 
bend.     It 's  the  only  way. 

MARIE. 

Oh,  good  Heavens  ! 

MAGDA. 

Poor  child  !  Yes,  in  this  house  one  learns 
quite  other  views.  I  bent,  myself,  yesterday 
disgracefully.  Ah,  how  nice  our  old  mamma  is  ! 
\_Earnestly,  poifiting  to  the  mother's  picture."] 
And  she  up  there!  Do  you  remember  her? 
[Marie  shakes  her  head.] 

MAGDA. 

\Thoughtftdly^  She  died  too  soon  !  Where  's 
papa?  I  want  him.  And  yet  I  'm  afraid  of  him 
too.  Now,  child,  while  I  eat  my  breakfast,  now 
vou  must  make  your  confession. 


pa  Magda. 

MARIE. 

Oh,  I  can't. 

MAGDA. 

Just  show  me  the  locket  1 

MARIE. 

There  1 

MAGDA. 

A     lieutenant !     Naturally.      With    us    it 
always  a  tenor. 

MARIE. 

Oh,  Magda,  it 's  no  joke.     He  is  my  fate. 

MAGDA. 

What  is  the  name  of  this  fate  ? 

MARIE. 

It 's  Cousin  Max. 

MAGDA. 

[^W/iisf/es.']  Why  don't  you  marry  the  good 
youth,  then? 

MARIE. 

Aunt  Frankie  wants  a  better  match  foi.  him, 
and  so  she  won't  give  him  the  guaranty  he 
needs.     It 's  abominable  ! 

MAGDA. 

Si/  C est  bite,  qa  /  And  how  long  have  you 
loved  each  other? 


Magda.  93 

MARIE. 

I  don't  remember  when  we  did  not. 

MAGDA. 

And  where  does  he  meet  you? 

MARIE. 

Here. 

MAGDA. 

I  mean  elsewhere  —  alone. 

MARIE. 

We  are  never  alone  together.  I  think  this 
precaution  we  owe  to  our  own  self-respect. 

MAGDA. 

Come  here  —  close  —  tell  me  the  truth  — 
has  it  never  entered  your  mind  to  cast  this 
whole  network  of  precaution  and  respect  away 
from  you,  and  to  go  with  the  man  you  love  out 
and  away  —  any\vhere  —  it  does  n't  matter 
much  —  and  as  you  lie  quietly  on  his  breast,  to 
hurl  back  a  scornful  laugh  at  the  whole  world 
which  has  sunk  behind  you  ? 

MARIE. 

No,  Magda,  I  never  feel  so. 

MAGDA. 

But  would  you  die  for  him? 


94  Magda. 


MARIE. 


\_Standing  up  with  a  gesture  of  enthusiasm^ 
I  would  die  a  thousand  deaths  for  him  ! 

MAGDA. 

My  poor  little  darling  !  \Aside^  They  bring 
everything  to  naught.  The  most  terrible  of  all 
passions  becomes  in  their  hands  a  mere  re- 
signed defiance  of  death. 

MARIE. 

Whom  are  you  speaking  of? 

MAGDA. 

Nothing,  nothing.  See  here,  how  large  is 
this  sum  you  need  ? 

MARIE. 

Sixty  thousand  marks. 

MAGDA. 

When  can  you  be  married  ?  Must  it  be  now, 
or  will  afternoon  do  ? 

MARIE. 

Don't  mock  me,  Magda. 

MAGDA. 

You  must  give  me  time  to  telegraph.  One 
can't  carry  so  much  money  about  with  one. 


Magda.  95 


MARIE. 

[^S/ow/y  taking  it  in,  and  then,  with  an  outburst 
c/j'oy,  throwing  herself  atMkGHjCs  feet.']  Magda  ! 

MAGDA. 

\After  a  silenced]  Be  happy,  love  your  hus- 
band. And  if  you  hold  your  first-born  on  your 
arm,  in  the  face  of  the  world  \holding  out  her 
arms  with  angry  emphasis]  —  so,  face  to  face, 
then  think  of  one  who  —  Ah  !  some  one  's 
coming. 

Enter  Heffterdingt  with  a  portfolio. 

MAGDA. 

\_Crossing  to  him.]  Oh,  it's  you.  .That's 
good.     I  wanted  you. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

You  wanted  me?   What  for? 

MAGDA. 

Only  —  I  want  to  talk  with  you,  holy  man. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Is  n't  it  good,  Miss  Magda,  to  be  at  home 
again? 

MAGDA. 

Oh,  yes,  except  for  the  old  aunt's  sneaking 
about. 


5  6  Magda. 


MARIE. 


[  IVho  is  collecting  the  breakfast-things  ;  laugh- 
ing,  but  frightened^     Oh,  Heavens,  Magda  I 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Good-moming,  Miss  Marie. 


MARIE. 

Good-moming,  Pastor. 


[Exit,  with  the  table. 


HEFFTERDINGT. 

Heavens,  how  she  beams  ! 

MAGDA. 

She  has  reason. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Is  n't  your  father  here  ? 

MAGDA. 

No. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Is  n't  he  well  ? 

MAGDA. 

I  think  so.  I  have  n't  seen  him  yet.  Yester- 
day we  sat  together  till  late.  I  told  him  what 
I  could  tell.  But  I  think  he  was  very  unhappy ; 
his  eyes  were  always  searching  and  probing. 
Oh,  I  fear  your  promise  will  be  badly  kept. 


Magda.  97 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

That  seems  like  a  reproach.  I  hope  you 
don't  regret  — 

MAGDA. 

No,  my  friend,  I  don't  regret  it.  But  I  feel 
very  curiously.  I  seem  to  be  in  a  tepid  bath, 
I  'm  so  weak  and  warm.  What  they  call  Ger- 
man sentiment  is  awaking  again,  and  I  have 
been  so  unused  to  it.  My  heart  seems  like  a 
Christmas  number  of  the  "  Gartenlaube,"  — 
moonlight,  betrothals,  lieutenants,  and  I  don't 
know  what !  But  the  best  of  it  is,  I  know  that 
I'm  playing  with  myself.  I  can  cast  it  all  off  as 
a  child  throws  away  its  doll,  and  be  my  old  self 
again. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

That  would  be  bad  for  us. 

MAGDA. 

Oh,  don't  be  angry  with  me.  I  seem  to  be 
all  torn  and  rooted  up.  And  then  I  am  so 
afraid  — 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Of  what? 

MAGDA. 

I  can't  —  I  can't  be  quite  one  of  yoti.  I  am 
an  intruder.  \_Aside,fearfuUy.'\  If  a  spectre 
from  without  were  to  appear,  this  whole  idyl 
would  go  up  in  flames.  [Heffterdingt  sup- 
presses a  start  of  astonishment.'\  And  I  'm  con- 
fined, heramed  in.  I  begin  to  be  a  coward. 
7 


9  8  Magda. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

I  don't  think  one  should  be  terrified  at  feel- 
ing fiUal  love. 

MAGDA. 

Filial  love?  I  should  like  to  take  that  snow- 
white  head  in  my  lap  and  say,  "  You  old  child  !  " 
And  nevertheless  I  must  bend  my  will,  I  must 
bend  my  will.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  that. 
I  must  conquer ;  I  must  sing  down  opposition. 
I  sing  or  I  live,  —  for  both  are  one  and  the 
same,  —  so  that  men  must  will  as  I  do.  I  force 
them,  I  compel  them  to  love  and  mourn  and 
exult  and  lament  as  I  do.  And  woe  to  him 
who  resists  !  I  sing  them  down,  —  I  sing  and 
sing  until  they  become  slaves  and  playthings  in 
my  hands.  I  know  I  'm  confused,  but  you 
understand  what  I  mean. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

To  work  the  impress  of  one's  own  personal- 
ity, —  that 's  what  you  mean,  is  n't  it  ? 

MAGDA. 

St,  si,  sz,  si/  Oh,  I  could  tell  you  everything. 
Your  heart  has  tendrils  which  twine  about  other 
hearts  and  draw  them  out.  And  you  don't  do 
it  selfishly.  You  don't  know  how  mighty  you 
are.  The  men  outside  there  are  beasts,  whether 
in  love  or  hate.  But  you  are  a  man.  And  one 
feels  like  a  man  when  one  is  near  you.  Just 
think,  when  you  came  in  yesterday,  you  seemed 


Magda.  99 

to  me  so  small ;  but  something  grows  out  from 
you  and  becomes  always  greater,  almost  too 
great  for  me. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Good  Heavens,  what  can  it  be? 

MAGDA. 

What  shall  I  call  it,  —  self-sacrifice,  self- 
abnegation?  It  is  something  with  self  —  or 
rather  the  reverse.  That  is  what  impresses  me. 
And  that  is  why  you  can  do  so  much  with  me. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

How  strange  1 

MAGDA. 

What? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

I  must  own  it  to  you  —  it  is  —  it  is  nonsense  ; 
but  since  I  have  seen  you  again,  a  sort  of  long- 
ing has  awakened  within  me  to  be  like  you. 

MAGDA. 

Ha,  ha  !     You,  model  of  men  !     Like  me  ! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

I  have  had  to  stifle  much  in  my  nature.  My 
peace  is  the  peace  of  the  dead.  And  as  you 
stood  before  me  yesterday  in  your  freshness, 
your  natural  strength,  your  —  your  greatness,  I 
said  to  myself,  "  That  is  what  you  might  have 
been  if  at  the  right  moment  joy  had  entered 
into  your  life." 


loo  Magda. 


MAGDA. 


\_In  a  whisper.']  And  one  thing  more,  my 
friend,  —  sin  !  We  must  sin  if  we  wish  to 
grow.  To  become  greater  than  our  sins  is 
worth  more  than  all  the  purity  you  preach. 

HEFFTERDIXGT. 

\^Impressed.']  That  would  be  —  [  Voices 
outside.] 

MAGDA. 

[Starting  and  listening.]     'Sh  ! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

What's  the  matter? 

MAGDA. 

Nothing,  it 's  only  my  stupid  nervousness ; 
not  on  my  own  account,  believe  me,  only  out 
of  pity  for  all  these.     We  shall  still  be  friends? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

As  long  as  you  need  me. 

MAGDA. 

And  when  I  cease  to  need  you? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

There  will  be  no  change  in  me,  Miss  Magda. 
[As  he  is  going,  he  meets  Schwartze  in  the 
doorway.] 


Magda.  loi 

Enter  Schwartze. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Good-morning,  my  dear  pastor !  Will  you 
go  out  on  the  porch  for  a  moment?  I  will 
follow  you.  \^Exit  Heffterdingt.]  Now,  did 
you  sleep  well,  my  child  ?  \Kisses  her  on  the 
forehead^ 

MAGDA. 

Finely.  In  my  old  room  I  found  the  old 
sleep  of  childhood. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Had  you  lost  it  ? 

MAGDA. 

Have  n't  you  ? 

SCHWARTZE. 

They  say  a  good  conscience  —  Come  to 
me,  my  child. 

MAGDA. 

Gladly,  papa  !  No,  let  me  sit  at  your  feet. 
There  I  can  see  your  beautiful  white  beard. 
When  I  look  at  it,  I  always  think  of  Christmas 
eve  and  a  quiet  snow-covered  field. 

SCHWARTZE. 

My  child,  you  know  how  to  say  pretty 
things.  When  you  speak,  one  seems  to  see 
pictures  about  one.  Here  we  are  not  so  clever ; 
that  is  why  we  have  nothing  to  conceal  here. 


102  Magda. 

MAGDA. 

We  also  —     But  speak  quietly,  papa. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Yes,  I  must.  You  know  what  agreement 
you  made  with  the  pastor. 

MAGDA. 

Which  you  will  keep? 

SCHWARTZE. 

I  am  accustomed  to  keep  to  what  I  have 
promised.  But  you  must  see  that  the  suspicion 
—  whatever  I  may  do,  the  suspicion  weighs  like 
a  mountain  — 

MAGDA. 

What  do  you  suspect  ? 

SCHWARTZE. 

I  don't  know.  You  have  appeared  among 
us  as  wonderfully  as  gloriously.  But  brilliance 
and  worldly  honor  and  all  that  don't  blind  a 
father's  eyes.  You  seem  to  be  warm  at  heart 
too.  At  least,  one  would  think  so  to  hear  you 
speak.  But  there  is  something  in  your  eyes 
which  does  not  please  me,  and  a  scornful  curl 
about  your  lips. 

MAGDA. 

Dear,  good  old  papa  I 


Magda.  103 

SCHWARTZE. 

You  see  !  This  tenderness  is  not  that  of  a 
daughter  towards  her  father.  It  is  so  that  one 
pets  a  child,  whether  it  be  a  young  or  an  old 
one.  And  although  I  'm  only  a  poor  soldier, 
lame  and  disabled,  I  demand  your  respect,  my 
child. 

MAGDA. 

I  have  never  withheld  it.     [Jiising.'] 

SCHWARTZE. 

That  is  good,  that  is  good,  my  daughter. 
Believe  me,  we  are  not  so  simple  as  we  may 
appear  to  you.  We  have  eyes  to  see,  and  ears 
to  hear,  that  the  spirit  of  moral  revolt  is  abroad 
in  the  world.  The  seed  which  should  take 
root  in  the  heart,  begins  to  decay.  What  were 
once  sins  easily  become  customs  to  you.  My 
child,  soon  you  will  go  away.  When  you  re- 
turn, you  may  find  me  in  the  grave. 

MAGDA. 

Oh,  no,  papa ! 

SCHWARTZE. 

It 's  in  God's  hand.  But  I  implore  you  — 
Come  here,  my  child  —  nearer  —  so  —  [Bf 
draws  her  down  to  hitn,  and  takes  her  head 
between  his  hands.']  I  implore  you  —  let  me 
be  happy  in  my  dying  hour.  Tell  me  that  you 
have  remained  pure  in  body  and  soul,  and  then 
go  with  my  blessing  on  your  way. 


104  Magda. 

MAGDA. 

I  have  remained  —  true  to  myself,  dear 
father. 

SCHWARTZE. 

How?     In  good  or  in  ill ? 

MAGbA. 

In  what  —  for  me  —  was  good. 

SCHWARTZE. 

[^B/ank/y.'}     In  what  —  for  you  —  then? 

MAGDA. 

[^J^isi;!g.']  And  now  don't  worry  any  more. 
Let  me  enjoy  these  few  days  quietly.  They  will 
be  over  soon  enough. 

SCHWARTZE. 

\_Broodingfy.']  I  love  you  with  my  whole 
heart,  because  I  have  sorrowed  for  you  —  so 
long.  \_Threateningly,  risi?jg.'\  But  I  must 
know  who  you  are. 

MAGDA. 

Father  dear  —  \_BelI  rings.  Mrs.  Schwartze 
bursts  in.'] 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Just  think  !  the  ladies  of  the  Committee  are 
here  1  They  want  to  congratulate  us  in  person. 
Do  you  think  we  ought  to  offer  them  coffee, 
Leopold  ? 


Magda.  105 

SCHWARTZE. 

I  will  go  into  the  garden,  Augusta. 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

For  Heaven's  sake  —  they  're  just  coming  — 
you  must  receive  their  congratulations. 

SCHWARTZE. 

I  can't  —  no  —  I  can't  do  it !        [^Exi/,  left. 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

What  is  the  matter  with  your  father? 

Enter  Mrs.  General  von  Klebs,  Mrs.  Justice 
Ellrich,  Mrs.  Schumann,  and  Franziska. 

franziska. 

\_A5  she  opens  the  door7\  My  dear,  the 
ladies  — 

MRS.  von  klebs. 

\^Giving  her  hand  to  Mrs.  Schwartze.] 
What  a  day  for  you,  my  dear !  The  whole 
town  rejoices  in  the  happy  event. 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Permit  me  —  my  daughter  —  Mrs.  General 
von  Klebs,  Mrs.  Justice  Ellrich,  Mrs.  SchumaniL 

MRS.  SCHUMANN. 

I  am  only  the  wife  of  a  simple  merchant,* 
but  — 


io6  Magda. 

MRS.  VON  KLEBS. 

My  husband  will  do  himself  the  honor 
soon  — 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Won't  you  sit  down,  ladies?     \They  «V.] 

FRANZISKa. 

{With  aplomb.']  Yes,  it  is  truly  a  joyful 
event  for  the  whole  family. 

MRS.  VON  KLEBS. 

We  have  unfortunately  not  shared  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  festival,  my  dear  young  lady,  I  must 
therefore  refrain  from  expressing  that  admira- 
tion to  which  you  are  so  well  accustomed. 

MRS.  SCHUMANN. 

If  we  had  known,  we  should  certainly  have 
ordered  tickets. 

MRS,  VON  KLEBS. 

Do  you  expect  to  remain  here  for  very  long  ? 

MAGDA. 

That  I  really  cannot  say,  madam  —  or,  par- 
don me  — your  ladyship? 

MRS,  VON  KLEBS. 

I  must  beg  you  —  no, 

MAGDA. 

Oh,  pardon  me  ! 


Magda.  107 

MRS.  VON  KLEBS. 

Oh,  please ! 

MAGDA. 

We  are  such  birds  of  passage,  my  dear 
madam,  that  we  can  really  never  plan  for  the 
future. 

MRS.  ELLRICH. 

But  one  must  have  one's  real  home. 

MAGDA. 

Why?  One  must  have  a  vocation.  That 
seems  to  me  enough. 

FRANZISKA. 

It 's  all  in  the  point  of  view,  dear  Magda. 

MRS.  VON  KLEBS. 

Ah,  we  're  so  far  removed  from  all  these 
ideas,  my  dear  young  lady.  Every  now  and 
then  some  person  gives  lectures  here,  but  the 
good  families  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

MAGDA. 

^^Politely,"]  Oh,  I  can  quite  understand  that. 
The  good  families  need  nothing,  as  they  have 
plenty  to  eat.     [A  silence.'] 

MRS.  ELLRICH. 

But  at  least  you  must  have  some  residence  ? 


io8  Magda. 


MAGDA. 

If  you  call  it  so,  —  a  place  to  sleep.  Yes,  I 
have  a  villa  by  the  Lake  of  Como  and  an  estate 
at  Naples.      [_Sensa/wn.^ 

MRS.    SCHWART2E. 

But  you  've  said  nothing  to  us  about  that. 

MAGDA. 

I  hardly  ever  make  use  of  them,  mamma 
dear. 

MRS.  ELLRICH. 

Art  must  be  a  very  trying  occupation  ? 

MAGDA. 

[/«  a  friendly  tone!\  It  depends  upon  how 
one  follows  it,  my  dear  madam. 

MRS.  ELLRICH. 

My  daughter  used  to  take  singing-lessons, 
and  it  always  taxed  her  very  much. 

MAGDA. 

\_Politely.'\     Oh,  I  'm  sorry  for  that. 

MRS.  ELLRICH. 

Naturally,  you  only  do  it  for  pleasure. 

MAGDA. 

Oh,  it 's  so  much  pleasure  !  \_Aside  to  Mrs. 
ScHWARTZE,  wJio  sits  near  her.'\  Get  these 
women  away,  or  I  shall  be  rude  I 


Magda.  109 


MRS.  VON  KI£BS. 

Are  you  really  engaged  by  a  theatre,  my  dear 
young  lady  ? 

MAGDA. 

I  Very  sweetly.']    Sometimes,  my  dear  madam. 

MRS.  VON  KLEBS. 

Then  you  are  out  of  an  engagement  at 
present  ? 

MAGDA. 

\_Murmurs.']  Oh,  come,  come  !  \_Aloud.']  Yes, 
I  'm  a  vagabond  now.  [  The  ladies  look  at  each 
other.] 

MRS.  VON  KLEBS. 

There  are  really  not  many  daughters  of  good 
famUies  on  the  stage,  are  there  ? 

MAGDA. 

[/«  a  friendly  tone.]  No,  my  dear  madam; 
most  of  them  are  too  stupid. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Oh,  Magda ! 

Enter  Max. 

MAGDA. 

Oh,  that  must  be  Max  !  [  Goes  to  him  and 
shakes  hands.]  Just  think,  I  had  quite  forgot- 
ten your  face.  We  were  great  friends,  were  we 
not? 


no  Magda. 

MAX. 

Were  we?     [^As/om'shed.'] 

MAGDA. 

Well,  we  can  begin  now. 

MRS.  ELLRICH. 

\Aside.'\     Do  you  understand  this? 

[Mrs.  von  Klebs  shrugs  her  shoulder.  The 
ladies  rise  and  take  their  leave,  shaking 
hands  with  Mrs.  Schwartze  and  Fran- 
ziSKA,  and  bowing  to  Magda.] 

MRS.  schwartze. 

\_Confused^  Must  you  go  already,  ladies? 
My  husband  will  be  so  sorry  — 

MAGDA. 

\_Coolly7\     An  revoir,  ladies,  au  revoir ! 
\_Exit  the  ladies  in  the  order  of  their  rank. 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

[^Turning  back  from  the  door."]  Mrs.  von 
Klebs  was  offended,  or  she  would  have  stayed. 
Magda,  you  certainly  must  have  offended  Mrs. 
von  Klebs. 

FRANZISKA. 

And  the  other  ladies,  too,  were  hurt. 

MAGDA. 

Mamma  dear,  won't  you  see  about  my  trunk  ? 


Magda.  1 1 1 


MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 


Yes,  yes,  I  '11  go  to    the  hotel  myself.     Oh 
dear,  oh  dear,  oh  dear  !  [^£xi/. 

FRANZISKA. 

Wait,  I  'm  coming  too.     [Sp'^e/u/fy.^  I  must 
make  myself  useful,  of  course  ! 

MAGDA. 

Oh,  Aunt  Frankie,  a  word  with  you. 

FRANZISKA. 

Now? 

MAGDA. 

We  're  going  to  celebrate  a  betrothal  to-day. 

FRANZISKA. 

What  betrothal? 

MAGDA. 

Between  him  and  Marie. 

MAX. 
\Joyfullyr\     Magda ! 

FRANZISKA. 

I  think,  as   I    occupy   a   mother's   position 
towards  him,  that  it  is  my  right  — 

MAGDA. 

No ;  the  giver  alone  has  rights,  my  dear  aunt. 
And  now  don't  fail. 


1 1 2  Magda. 

FRANZISKA. 

[J^urious/y.']     I  will  make  you  —         [^Exif. 

MAX. 

How  shall  I  thank  you,  my  dear  Miss  — 

MAGDA. 

Magda,  my  dear  cousin,  Magda  1 

MAX. 

Pardon  me,  it  was  my  great  respect  — 

MAGDA. 

Not  so  much  respect,  my  boy,  —  I  don't  like 
it ;  more  weight,  more  individuality  ! 

MAX. 

Ah,  my  dear  cousin,  should  a  young  lieu- 
tenant with  twenty-five  marks'  pay,  not  to  speak 
of  debts,  have  individuality  ?  It  would  only  be 
a  hindrance  to  him. 

MAGDA. 

Ah! 

MAX. 

If  I  manage  my  men  properly,  and  dance  a 
correct  figure  at  our  regimental  balls,  and  am 
not  a  coward,  that  is  enough. 

MAGDA. 

To  make  a  wife  happy,  certainly.  Go  and 
find  her.     Go  along  ! 


Magda.  113 

MAX. 

\^Starts  to  go,  and  turns  back."]  Oh,  excuse 
me,  in  my  happiness  I  entirely  forgot  the  mes- 
sage I —  Early  this  morning  —  by-the-by,  you 
can't  think  what  a  tumult  the  whole  city  is  in 
about  you  —  well,  early  this  morning  —  I  was 
still  in  bed  —  an  acquaintance  came  in  who  is 
also  an  old  acquaintance  of  yours,  very  pale 
from  excitement,  and  he  asked  whether  it  were 
all  true,  and  if  he  might  come  to  see  you. 

MAGDA. 

Yes,  let  him  come. 

MAX. 

He  wanted  me  to  ask  you  first.  He  would 
then  send  in  his  card  this  morning. 

MAGDA. 

What  formalities  the  men  go  through  here  ! 
Who  is  he? 

MAX. 

Councillor  von  Kellero 

MAGDA. 

\Speaking  with  difficulty.']  He — what?  — 
he? 

MAX. 

[^Laughing."]       Pardon   me,    but    you  're    as 
white  now  as  he  was. 
8 


114  Magda.  * 

MAGDA. 

[Qute^/y.]     I?    White? 

Enter  Theresa  with  a  card, 

MAX. 

Here  he  is.     Dr.  von  Keller. 

MAGDA. 

Let  him  come  up. 

MAX. 

[Smiling.']  I  '11  only  say  to  you,  my  dear 
cousin,  that  he  's  a  very  important  man,  who 
has  a  great  career  before  him,  and  promises  to 
be  a  pillar  of  our  religious  circle. 

MAGDA. 

Thank  you  ! 

Enter  Von  Keller  with  a  bouquet. 

MAX. 

[Crossing  to  him.']  My  dear  Councillor, 
here  is  my  cousin,  who  is  delighted  to  see  you. 
You  will  excuse  me. 

[Exit,  with  a  bow  to  each. 

[Von  Keller  remaitis  standing  at  the  door. 
Magda  moves  about  nervous/y.     Silence.] 

MAGDA. 

[Aside.]  Here  is  my  spectre  !  [Indicates 
a  seat  at  the  table,  left,  and  sits  down  opposite.] 


Magda.  ne 


VON  KELLER. 


First,  you  must  allow  me  to  express  my 
warmest  and  most  sincere  good  wishes.  This 
is  a  surprise  which  you  happily  could  not  have 
expected.  And  as  a  sign  of  my  interest,  allow 
me,  my  dearest  friend,  to  present  you  with 
these  modest  flowers. 


MAGDA. 

Oh,  how  thoughtful !  [Takes  the  flowers  with 
a  laugh,  and  throws  them  on  the  table.'] 

VON   KELLER. 

[^In  embarrassment.']  I  —  I  see  with  sorrow 
that  you  resent  this  approach  on  my  part. 
Have  I  in  any  way  been  wanting  in  the  neces- 
sary delicacy?  In  these  narrow  circles  a  meet- 
ing could  not  have  been  avoided.'  I  think  it  is 
better,  my  dearest  friend,  that  we  should  come 
to  an  understanding,  —  that  we  should  know 
the  relations  — 

MAGDA. 

\_Rtsing.]  You  're  right,  my  friend.  I  was 
not  at  the  height  of  my  own  nature  just  now. 
Had  I  been,  I  might  have  played  the  deserted 
Marguerite  to  the  end.  The  morals  of  home 
had  infected  me  a  little.  But  I  am  myself 
again.  Give  me  your  hand  bravely.  Don't  be 
afraid,  I  won't  harm  you.     So  —  tight  —  so  ! 

VON  KELLER. 

You  make  me  happy. 


ii6  Magda. 


MAGDA. 

I  've  painted  this  meeting  to  myself  a  thousand 
times,  and  have  been  prepared  for  it  for  years. 
Something  warned  me,  too,  when  I  undertook 
this  journey  home  —  though  I  must  say  I  hardly 
expected  just  here  to  —  Yes,  how  is  it  that,  after 
what  has  passed  between  us,  you  came  into  this 
house  ?     It  seems  to  me  a  little  — 

VON  KELLER. 

I  tried  to  avoid  it  until  quite  recently ;  but 
since  we  belong  to  the  same  circles,  and  since  I 
agree  with  the  views  of  this  family  —  that  is,  at 
least  in  theory  — 

MAGDA. 

Yes,  yes.  Let  me  look  at  you,  my  poor  friend. 
How  you  have  changed  ! 

VON  KELLER. 

\_Laughing  netvous/y.']  I  seem  to  have  the 
misfortune  to  make  a  rather  absurd  figure  in 
your  eyes. 

MAGDA. 

No,  oh,  no  !  I  can  see  it  all.  The  effort  to 
keep  worthy  of  respect  under  such  difficulties, 
with  a  bad  conscience,  is  awkward.  You  look 
down  from  the  height  of  your  pure  atmosphere 
on  your  sinful  youth,  —  for  you  are  called  a 
pillar,  my  dear  friend. 


Magda.  117 

VON  KELLER. 

[Looking  at  the  doorJ]  Pardon  me  —  I  can 
hardly  accustom  myself  again  to  the  affection- 
ate terms.  And  if  any  one  should  hear  us  — 
Would  it  not  be  better  — 

MAGDA. 

[Sadfy."]     Let  them  hear  us. 

VON  KELLER. 

[^At  the  doorJ]  Good  Heavens  !  Well  [^sitting 
down  again'] ,  as  I  was  saying,  if  you  knew  with 
what  real  longing  I  look  back  from  this  height 
at  my  gay,  discarded  youth  — 

MAGDA. 

[Half  to  herself.']    So  gay,  —  yes,  so  gay. 

VON  KELLER. 

Well,  I  felt  myself  called  to  higher  things. 
I  thought —  Why  should  I  undervalue  my 
position?  I  have  become  Councillor,  and  that 
comparatively  young.  An  ordinary  ambition 
might  take  satisfaction  in  that.  But  one  sits  and 
waits  at  home,  while  others  are  called  to  the 
ministry.  And  this  environment,  conventionality, 
and  narrowness,  all  is  so  gray,  —  gray  !  And 
the  ladies  here  —  for  one  who  cares  at  all  about 
elegance  —  I  assure  you  something  rejoiced 
within  me  when  I  read  this  morning  that  you 
were  the  famous  singer,  —  you  to  whom  I  was 
tied  by  so  many  dear  memories  and  — 


ii8  Magda. 

MAGDA. 

And  then  you  thought  whether  it  might  not 
be  possible  with  the  help  of  these  dear  memories 
to  bring  a  httle  color  into  the  gray  background  ? 

VON  KELLER. 

[^SmtVing.']    Oh,  pray  don't  — 

MAGDA. 

Well,  between  old  friends  — 

VON  KELLER. 

Really,  are  we  that,  really? 

MAGDA. 

Certainly,  sans  rancune.  Oh,  if  I  took  it 
from  the  other  standpoint,  I  should  have  to  range 
the  whole  gamut,  —  liar,  coward,  traitor  !  But 
as  I  look  at  it,  I  owe  you  nothing  but  thanks, 
my  friend. 

VON  KELLER. 

\Pleasedf  but  confused^    This  is  a  view  which  — 

MAGDA. 

Which  is  very  convenient  for  you.  But  why 
should  I  not  make  it  convenient  for  you?  In 
the  manner  in  which  we  met,  you  had  no  obli- 
gations towards  me.  I  had  left  my  home  ;  I  was 
young  and  innocent,  hot-blooded  and  careless, 
and  I  lived  as  I  saw  others  live.  I  gave  myself 
to  you  because  I  loved  you.     I   might  perhaps 


Magda.  1 1  ^ 

have  loved  any  one  who  came  in  my  way.  That 
—  that  seemed  to  be  all  over.  And  we  were  so 
happy,  —  were  n't  we  ? 

VON  KELLER. 

Ah,  when  I  think  of  it,  my  heart  seems  to 
stop  beating. 

MAGDA, 

There  in  the  old  attic,  five  flights  up,  we  three 
girls  lived  so  merrily  in  our  poverty.  Two  hired 
pianos,  and  in  the  evening  bread  and  dripping. 
Emmy  used  to  warm  it  herself  over  the  oil-stove. 

VON  KELLER. 

And  Katie  with  her  verses  !  Good  Lord ! 
What  has  become  of  them  ? 

MAGDA. 

Chi  to  sa  ?  Perhaps  they  're  giving  singing- 
lessons,  perhaps  they  're  on  the  stage.  Yes, 
we  were  a  merry  set ;  and  when  the  fun  had 
lasted  half  a  year,  one  day  my  lover  vanished. 

VON  KELLER. 

An  unlucky  chance,  I  swear  to  you.  My 
father  was  ill.  I  had  to  travel.  I  wrote  every- 
thing to  you. 

MAGDA. 

H'm  !  I  did  not  reproach  you.  And  now  I 
will  tell  you  why  I  owe  you  thanks.  I  was  a 
stupid,  unsuspecting  thing,  enjoying  freedom  like 
a  runaway  monkey.     Through  you  I  became  a 


1 20  Magda. 

'voman.  For  whatever  I  have  done  in  my  art, 
lor  whatever  I  have  become  in  myself,  I  have 
you  to  thank.  My  soul  was  like  —  yes,  down 
below  there,  there  used  to  be  an  ^olian  harp 
which  was  left  mouldering  because  my  father 
could  not  bear  it.  Such  a  silent  harp  was  my 
soul ;  and  through  you  it  was  given  to  the  storm. 
And  it  sounded  almost  to  breaking,  —  the  whole 
scale  of  passions  which  bring  us  women  to 
maturity,  —  love  and  hate  and  revenge  and  ambi- 
tion \jpnnging  up\,  and  need,  need,  need  — 
three  times  need  —  and  the  highest,  the  strong- 
est, the  holiest  of  all,  the  mother's  love  !  — 
All  I  owe  to  you  ! 

VON  KELLER. 

What  —  what  do  you  say  ? 

MAGDA. 

Yes,  my  friend,  you  have  asked  after  Emmy 
and  Katie.  But  you  have  n't  asked  after  your 
child. 

VON  KELLER. 

\_yutnping  vp  and  looking  about  anxiously."] 
My  child  ! 

MAGDA. 

Your  child  ?  Who  calls  it  so  ?  Yours  ?  Ha, 
ha  !  Dare  to  claim  portion  in  him  and  I  '11  kill 
you  with  these  hands.  Who  are  you  ?  You  're 
a  strange  man  who  gratified  his  lust  and  passed 
on  with  a  laugh.  But  I  have  a  child,  —  my  son, 
my  God,  my  all  1  For  him  I  Uved  and  starved  and 


Magda.  121 

froze  and  walked  the  streets  ;  for  him  I  sang  and 
danced  in  concert-halls,  —  for  my  child  who  was 
crying  for  his  bread  !  \_Breaks  out  in  a  convulsive 
laugh  which  changes  to  weepng,  and  throws 
herself  on  a  seat,  right.'] 

VON  KELLER. 

[After  a  silence.']  I  am  confounded.  If  I 
could  have  suspected,  — yes,  if  I  could  have  sus- 
pected —  I  will  do  everything  ;  I  will  not  shrink 
from  any  reparation.  But  now,  I  beg  you  to 
quiet  yourself.  They  know  that  I  am  here.  If 
they  saw  us  so,  I  should  be  —  \_correcting 
himself]  you  would  be  lost. 

MAGDA. 

Don't  be  afraid.     I  won't  compromise  you. 

VON  KELLER. 

Oh,  I  was  not  speaking  for  myself,  not  at  all. 
But  just  think,  if  it  were  to  come  out,  what  the 
town  and  your  father  — 

MAGDA. 

Poor  old  man !  His  peace  is  destroyed,  at 
any  rate. 

VON  KELLER. 

And  think  !  the  more  brilliantly  you  are  placed 
now,  the  more  certain  is  your  ruin. 

MAGDA. 

\Madly.]    And  if  I  wish  for  ruin  !    If  I  — 


122  Magda. 

VON    KELLER. 

For  Heaven's  sake,  hush  !  some  one  's  coming. 

MAGDA. 

\Springing  up."]  Let  them  come  !  Let  them 
all  come  !  I  don't  care,  I  don't  care  !  To 
their  faces  I  '11  say  what  I  think  of  you,  —  of  you 
and  your  respectable  society.  Why  should  I  be 
worse  than  you,  that  I  must  prolong  my  existence 
among  you  by  a  lie  !  Why  should  this  gold  upon 
my  body,  and  the  lustre  which  surrounds  my 
name,  only  increase  my  infamy?  Have  I  not 
worked  early  and  late  for  ten  long  years  ?  Have 
I  not  woven  this  dress  with  sleepless  nights? 
Have  I  not  built  up  my  career  step  by  step,  like 
thousands  of  my  kind  ?  Why  should  I  blush 
before  any  one  ?  I  am  myself,  and  through  my- 
self I  have  become  what  I  am. 

VON  KELLER. 

Good !  You  may  stand  there  proudly,  but 
you  might  at  least  consider  — 

MAGDA. 

Whom  ?  \^As  he  is  silent.']  Whom  ?  The  pil- 
lar !  Ha,  ha  !  The  pillar  begins  to  totter  !  Be 
easy,  my  dear  friend.  I  am  not  revengeful. 
But  when  I  look  at  you  in  all  your  cowardly 
dignity  —  unwilling  to  take  upon  you  the  slight- 
est consequence  of  your  doings,  and  contrast 
you  with  myself,  who  sank  through  your  love  to 
be  a  pariah  and  an  outcast  —  Ah,  I  "m  ashamed 
of  you.     Pah  ! 


Magda.  123 


VON  KELLER. 

For  Heaven's  sake  !  Your  father !  If  he 
should  see  you  like  this ! 

MAGDA. 

[/«  agony.']  My  father !  \^E scapes  through 
the  door  of  the  dining-room,  with  her  handker- 
chief to  her  face.] 

Enter  Schwartze,  happy  and  excited,  through 
the  hall-door. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Ah,  my  dear  Councillor  —  was  that  my 
daughter  who  just  disappeared? 

VON  KELLER. 

[/«  great  embarrassment.]     Yes,  it  was  — 

SCHWARTZE. 

Why  should  she  run  away  from  me  ?  Magda  ! 

VON  KELLER. 

{^Trying  to  block  his  path.]  Had  you  not 
better  —  The  young  lady  wished  to  be  alone 
for  a  little  ! 

SCHWARTZE. 

Now?  Why?  When  one  has  visitors,  one 
does  not  —     Why  should  she  — 

VON  KELLER. 

She  was  a  little  —  agitated. 


124  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Agitated  ? 

VON  KELLER. 

Yes ;  that 's  all. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Who  has  been  here? 

VON  KELLER. 

No  one.     At  least,  as  far  as  I  know. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Then,  what   agitating   things  could  you  two 
have  to  talk  about? 

VON  KELLER. 

Nothing  of  importance,  —  nothing  at  all,  I 
assure  you. 

SCHWARTZE. 

What  makes  you  look  so,  then?    You  can 
scarcely  stand. 

VON  KELLER. 

I  ?     Oh,  you  're  mistaken,  you  're  mistaken. 

SCHWARTZE. 

One  question,  Councillor  —    You  and   my 
daughter  —    Please  sit  down. 

VON  KELLER. 

My  time  is  unfortunately  — 


Magda.  125 

SCHWARTZE. 

\_Aimos/  threatening.']   I  beg  you  to  sit  down. 

VON  KELLER. 

\^No/ daring  to  resist.']     Thank  you.     [^They 

SCHWARTZE. 

You  met  my  daughter  some  years  ago  in 
Berlin? 

VON  KELLER. 

Yes. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Councillor  von  Keller,  I  know  you  to  be  as 
discreet  as  you  are  sensible  ;  but  there  are  cases 
in  which  silence  is  a  crime.  I  ask  you  —  and 
your  hfe-long  relations  with  me  give  me  the 
right  to  ask,  as  well  as  the  mystery  —  which 
just  now  —  In  short,  I  ask  you.  Do  you  know 
anything  discreditable  about  my  daughter's  life 
there  ? 

VON  KELLER. 

Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  how  can  you  — 

SCHWARTZE. 

Do  you  not  know  how  and  where  she  lived  ? 

VON  KELLER. 

No.    I  am  absolutely  — 

SCHWARTZE. 

Have  you  never  visited  at  her  house  ? 


126  Magda. 

VON  KELLER. 

[More  and  more  confused.'\     No,  no,  never, 
never. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Not  once  ? 

VON  KELLER. 

Well,  I  called  on  her  once  ;  but  — 

SCHWARTZE. 

Your  relations  were  friendly? 

VON  KELLER. 

Oh,  entirely  friendly  —  of  course,  only  friendly. 
\A  pause."] 

SCHWARTZE. 

[Passes  his  hand  over  his  forehead,  looks 
earnestly  at  Von  Keller  ;  then,  speaking  ab- 
sently^ So?  Then,  honestly —  if  it  might  be  — 
if —  if —  [Gets  up,  goes  to  VoN  Keller,  and 
sits  down  again,  trying  to  quiet  himself.']  Dr. 
von  Keller,  we  both  live  in  a  quiet  world,  where 
scandals  are  unknown.  But  I  have  grown  old, 
very  old.  And  therefore  I  can't  —  can't  control 
my  thoughts  as  I  should.  And  I  can't  rid  my- 
self of  an  idea  which  has  —  suddenly — taken 
possession  of  me.  I  have  just  had  a  great  joy 
which  I  don't  want  to  be  embittered.  But,  to 
quiet  an  old  man,  I  beg  you  —  give  me  your 
word  of  honor  that  — 


Magda.  iiy 


VON  KELLER. 

\_Rising.']  Pardon  me,  this  seems  almost 
like  a  cross-examination. 

SCHWARTZE. 

You  must  know,  then,  what  I  — 

VON  KELLER. 

Pardon  me,  I  wish  to  know  nothing.  I  came 
here  innocently  to  make  a  friendly  visit,  and  you 
have  taken  me  by  surprise.  I  will  not  be  taken 
by  surprise.     \_Takes  his  hatJ] 

SCHWARTZE. 

Dr.  von  Keller,  have  you  thought  what  this 
refusal  means? 

VON  KELLER. 

Pardon  me,  if  you  wish  to  know  anything,  I 
beg  you  to  ask  your  daughter.  She  will  tell 
you  what  —  what —  And  now  you  must  let 
me  go.  You  know  where  I  live.  In  case  — 
I  am  very  sorry  it  has  happened  so :  but  — 
Good-day,  Colonel  I  [Exit. 

SCHWARTZE. 

[yi/ter  brooding  for  a  time.'\     Magda  I 

MARIE. 

[Running  in  anxiously."]  For  Heaven's 
sake,   what 's  the   matter  ? 


128  Magda. 


SCHWARTZE. 

|[  Chokingly.']     Magda,  —  I  want  Magda. 

MARIE. 

\_Goes  to  the  door  and  opens  //.]  She  's  com- 
ing now  —  down  the  stairs. 

SCHWARTZE. 

So  !    \_Pulls  himself  together  with  an  effort.] 

MARIE. 

\^Clasping  her  hands.]  Don't  hurt  her! 
\^Pauses  with  the  door  open.  Magda  is  seen 
descending  the  stairs.  She  enters  in  travelling- 
dress,  hat  in  hand,  very  pale,  but  calm.] 

MAGDA. 

I  heard  you  call,  father. 

SCHWARTZE. 

I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 

MAGDA. 

And  I  to  you. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Go  in  —  into  my  room. 

MAGDA. 

Yes,  father.  \^She  goes  to  the  door,  left. 
ScHWARTZE  follows  her.  Marie,  who  has  drawn 
back  frightened  to  the  dining-room  door,  makes 
an  unseen  gesture  of  entreaty^ 


Magda.  129 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  :  the  same. 

TMrs.  Schwartze  and  Marie  discovered.  Mrs. 
ScHWARTZE,  in  hat  and  cloak,  is  knocking 
on  the  door  at  the  left^ 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Leopold !  Oh,  Heaven,  I  dare  not  go  in. 

MARIE. 

No,  no,  don't !  Oh,  if  you  'd  only  seen  his 
face  1 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

And  they  've  been  in  there  half  an  hour,  you 
say? 

MARIE. 

Longer,  longer  ! 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Now  she  's  speaking  !  \_Listening,  frightened."] 
He  's  threatening  her.  Marie,  Marie  !  Run  into 
the  garden.  The  pastor  's  there,  in  the  arbor. 
Tell  him  everything,  —  about  Mr.  von  Keller's 
being  here, —  and  ask  him  to  come  in  quickly. 

MARIE. 

Yes,  mamma.     \^Hurries  to  the  hall  door. '\ 
9 


ijo  Magda. 


MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Wait  a  minute,  Marie.  Has  Theresa  heard 
anything?     If  it  should  get  about  — 

MARIE. 

I  've  already  sent  her  away,  mamma. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

That 's  right,  that 's  right.  [^Exit  Marie. 
Mrs.  Schwartze  knocks  again.']  Leopold  !  listen 
to  me,  Leopold  !  \_Re treating.']  Oh,  Heaven  ! 
he 's  coming  !  \^Enter  Schwartze,  tent  and 
tottering.] 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

How  do  you  feel,  Leopold? 

SCHWARTZE. 

\_Sinking  into  a  chair.]  Yes,  yes, — just 
like  the  roses.  The  knife  comes,  and  cuts  the 
stem,  and  the  wound  can  never  be  healed. 
What  am  I  saying?     What? 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

He  's  out  of  his  mind. 

SCHWARTZE. 

No,  no,  I  'm  not  out  of  my  mind.  I  know 
quite  well  —  [Magda  appears  at  the  door,  ie/t.] 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

What  have  you  done  to  him? 


Magda.  iji 


SCHWARTZE. 

Yes,  what  have  you  —  what  have  you  ?  That 
is  my  daughter.  What  shall  I  do  with  my 
daughter  now? 

MAGDA. 

\_Humbly,  almost  beseechmgly.']  Father,  is  n't 
it  best,  after  what  has  happened,  that  you 
should  let  me  go,  —  that  you  should  drive  me 
into  the  streets?  You  must  get  free  of  me  if 
this  house  is  to  be  pure  again. 

SCHWARTZE. 

So,  SO,  SO  !  You  think,  then,  you  have  only 
to  go  —  to  go  away,  out  there,  and  all  will  be 
as  before?  And  we?  What  will  become  of 
us  ?  I  —  good  God  !  —  I  —  I  have  one  foot 
in  the  grave  —  soon  it  will  be  over  —  but  the 
mother,  and  your  sister  —  your  sister. 

MAGDA. 

Marie  has  the  husband  she  wants  — 

SCHWARTZE. 

No  one  will  marry  a  sister  of  yours.  [  With 
aversion.']     No,  no.     Don't  think  it ! 

MAGDA. 

[Aside.']     My  God  ! 

SCHWARTZE. 

\^To  Mrs.  Schwartze.]  See,  she's  begin- 
ning now  to  realize  what  she  has  done. 


132  Magda. 

MRS.   SCHWARTZE. 

Yes ;  what  — 

MAGDA. 

[/«  tender  sympathy,  but  still  with  a  tinge  of 
superiority.^  My  poor  old  father  —  hsten  to 
me  —  I  can't  change  what  has  passed.  I  will 
give  Marie  half  my  fortune.  I  will  make  up  a 
thousand  times  all  that  I  have  made  you  suffer 
to-day.  But  now,  I  implore  you,  let  me  go  my 
way. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Oho! 

MAGDA. 

What  do  you  want  of  me?  What  am  I  to 
you  ?  Yesterday  at  this  time  you  did  not  know 
even  whether  I  still  lived ;  and  to-day  —  It  is 
madness  to  demand  that  I  should  think  and 
feel  again  as  you  do ;  but  I  am  afraid  of  you, 
father,  I  'm  afraid  of  you  all  —  ah,  I  am  not 
myself  —  \Breaking  out  in  torment^  I  can- 
not bear  the  sorrow. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Ha,  ha  1 

MAGDA. 

Father  dear,  I  will  humble  myself  before  you 
willingly.  I  lament  with  my  whole  heart  that 
I  've  brought  sorrow  to  you  to-day,  for  my  flesh 
and  blood  still  belong  to  you.  But  I  must 
live  out  my  own  life.  That  I  owe  to  myself,  — 
to  myself  and  mine.     Good- by  ! 


Magda.  133 

SCHWARTZE. 

[Stopping  her."]     Where  are  you  going  ? 

MAGDA. 

Let  me  pass,  father. 

SCHWARTZE. 

I  '11  kill  you  first.      \_Seizes  her."] 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Leopold  !  \^Etiter  Heffterdingt.  He  throws 
himself  between  them  7vith  a  cry  of  horror. 
Magda,  freed  by  the  old  man,  goes  slowly  back, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  Pastor,  to  the  seat, 
lefty  where  she  remains  motionless.^ 

heffterdingt. 
\_After  a  silence^     In  God's  name  ! 

SCHWARTZE. 

Yes,  yes,  yes.  Pastor  —  it  made  a  fine  family 
group,  eh  ?  Look  at  her  !  She  has  soiled  my 
name.  Any  scoundrel  can  break  my  sword. 
That  is  my  daughter ;  that  is  — 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Dear  Colonel,  these  are  things  which  I  do 
not  understand,  and  which  I  do  not  care  to 
understand.  But  it  seems  to  me  there  must  be 
something  to  do,  instead  of — 


134  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Yes,  to  do,  —  yes,  yes,  —  there  's  much  to  do 
here.  I  have  much  to  do.  I  don't  see  why 
I  'm  standing  here.  The  worst  of  it  is  —  the 
worst  of  it  is,  he  can  say  to  me  —  this  man  —  you 
are  a  cripple  —  with  your  shaking  hand  —  with 
such  a  one  I  can't  fight,  even  if  I  have  had 
your  daughter  for  a —  But  I  will  show  him  — 
1  will  show  him  —     Where  is  my  hat? 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

Where  Are  you  going.  Leopold?  [MAGi."u 
rises.'] 

SCHWARTZE. 

My  hat ! 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

[^Gives  him  hat  and  stick^     Here,  J^ere ' 

SCHWARTZE. 

So  !  \To  Magda.]  Learn  to  thank  the  God, 
in  whom  you  disbelieve,  that  he  has  preserved 
your  father  until  this  hour,  for  he  shall  bring  you 
back  your  honor ! 

magda. 

\^Kneeiing,  and  kissing  his  hand."]  Don't  do 
it,  father  !     I  don't  deserve  this  of  you. 

SCHWARTZE. 

\Bends  weeping  over  her  head.]  My  poor, 
poor  child  1 


Magda.  ijr 


MAGDA. 


[Calling  after  him.']     Father  ! 

\^Exit  ScHWARTZE  quickly. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

My  child,  whatever  happens,  we  women  — 
we  must  hold  together. 

MAGDA. 

Thanks,  mamma.  The  play  will  soon  be 
played  out  now. 

HEFFfERDINGT. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Schwartze,  Marie  is  out  there, 
full  of  sorrow.     Go  and  say  a  kind  word  to  her. 

MRS.    SCHWARTZE. 

What  shall  I  say  to  comfort  her,  when  all  the 
happiness  has  gone  out  of  her  Ufe  ?  [Magda 
jumps  up  in  anguish.']     Oh,  Pastor,  Pastor  ! 

lExit. 

MAGDA. 

\_A/ler  a  silence.]     Oh,  I  am  so  tired  ! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Miss  Magda  ! 

MAGDA. 

\_Brooding.]  I  think  I  shall  see  those  glar- 
ing bloodshot  eyes  before  me  always  —  wher- 
ever I  go. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Miss  Magda ! 


136  Magda. 

MAGDA. 

How  you  must  despise  me  1 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Ah,  Miss  Magda,  I  have  long  been  a  stranger 
to  despite.     We  are  all  poor  sinners  — 

MAGDA. 

[  JVith  a  bitter  laugh.']  Truly  we  are  —  Oh, 
I  am  so  tired  !  —  it  is  crushing  me.  There  is  that 
old  man  going  out  to  let  himself  be  shot  dead 
for  my  sake,  as  if  he  could  atone  for  all  my  sins 
with  his  single  life  !     Oh,  I  am  so  tired  ! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Miss  Magda  —  I  can  only  conjecture  —  what 
all  this  means  —  but  you  have  given  me  the 
right  to  speak  to  you  as  a  friend.  And  I  feel 
that  I  am  even  more.     I  am  your  fellow- sinner, 

Miss  Magda  ! 

MAGDA. 

Good  Heavens  !     Still  harping  on  that ! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Do  you  feel  the  obligation.  Miss  Magda,  to 
bring  honor  and  peace  back  to  this  house  ? 

MAGDA. 

\_Breaktng  out  in  anguish.']  You  have  lived 
through  the  sorrow,  and  ask  whether  I  feel  it? 


Magda.  ijy 


HEFFTERDINGT. 

I  think  your  father  will  obtain  from  that  gen- 
tleman the  declaration  that  he  is  ready  for  any 
sort  of  peaceable  satisfaction. 

MAGDA. 

Ha,  ha  !  The  noble  soul !  But  what  can  I 
do? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

You  can  —  not  spurn  the  hand  which  he  will 
offer  you. 

MAGDA. 

What?  You  don't  mean —  This  man  — 
this  strange  man  whom  I  despise  —  how,  how 
could  I  — 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Dear  Miss  Magda,  there  comes  an  hour  to 
almost  every  man  when  he  collects  the  broken 
pieces  of  his  life,  to  form  them  together  into  a 
new  design.  I  have  found  it  so  with  myself. 
And  now  it  is  your  turn. 

MAGDA. 

I  will  not  do  it  —  I  will  not  do  it. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

You  will  have  to. 

MAGDA. 

I  would  rather  take  my  child  in  my  arms  and 
throw  myself  into  the  sea. 


ijS  Magda. 


HEFFTERDINGT. 


\Suppresses  a  violent  start ;  continues  after 
a  silence,  hoarsely. '\  Of  course,  that  is  the  sim- 
plest solution.     And  your  father  can  follow  you. 

MAGDA. 

Oh,  have  pity  on  me  !  I  must  do  whatever 
you  demand.  I  don't  know  how  you  have 
gained  such  power  over  me.  Oh,  man,  if  the 
slightest  memory  of  what  you  once  felt,  if  the 
least  pity  for  your  own  youth,  still  lives  within 
you,  you  cannot  sacrifice  me  so  ! 

HEFFTERDINGT, 

I  do  not  sacrifice  you  alone,  Miss  Magda. 

MAGDA. 

\With  awakening  perceptions^     Good  God! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

There  's  no  other  way.  I  see  none.  You 
know  yourself  that  the  old  man  would  not  sur- 
vive it.  And  what  would  become  of  your 
mother,  and  what  would  become  of  your  poor 
sister?  Miss  Magda,  it  is  as  if  with  your  own 
hand  you  set  fire  to  the  house  and  let  every- 
thing burn  that  is  within.  And  this  house  is 
still  your  home  — 

MAGDA. 

[/«  growing  agony.']  I  will  not,  I  will  not. 
This  house  is  not  my  home.  My  home  is  with 
my  child  ! 


Magda.  139 


HEFFTERDINGT. 


This  child,  too.  He  will  grow  up  fatherless, 
and  will  be  asked,  "Where  is  your  father?" 
He  will  come  and  ask  you,  "  Where  is  my 
father?"  What  can  you  answer  him?  And, 
Miss  Magda,  he  who  has  not  peace  in  his  heart 
from  the  beginning  will  never  win  it  in  the  end. 

MAGDA. 

All  this  is  not  true,  and  if  it  were  true,  have 
I  not  a  heart  too?  Have  I  not  a  life  to  live 
also?  Have  I  not  a  right  to  seek  my  own 
happiness  ? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

\^Harshly.'\  No  ;  no  one  has  that.  But  do 
as  you  will.  Ruin  your  home,  ruin  your  father 
and  sister  and  child,  and  then  see  what  heart 
you  have  to  seek  your  own  happiness.  [Magda 
bows  her  head,  sobbing.  The  Pastor  crosses  to 
her,  and  leans  over  the  table  pityi?igly,  with  his 
hand  on  her  hair.'\     My  poor  — 

magda. 

\_Seizing  his  hand.']  Answer  me  one  ques- 
tion. You  have  sacrificed  your  life  for  my  sake. 
Do  you  think,  to-day,  in  spite  of  what  you  know 
and  what  you  do  not  know,  do  you  think  that  I 
am  worth  this  sacrifice? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

[^Constrained,  as  if  making  a  confession.]  I 
have  said  already  I  am  your  fellow-sinner.  Miss 
Magda. 


I40  Magda. 


MAGDA. 

\After  apauseJ]    I  will  do  what  you  demand. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

I  thank  you. 

MAGDA. 

Good-by. 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Good-by.  \_Exit.  He  is  seen  through  the 
open  door  speakitig  to  Marie  and  sending  her  in. 
Magda  remains  fnotionless,  with  her  face  in  her 
hands  until  he  has  gone. 

Enter  Marie. 

MARIE. 

What  can  I  do,  Magda? 

MAGDA. 

Where  has  the  pastor  gone  ? 

MARIE. 

Into  the  garden.     Mamma  is  with  him. 

MAGDA. 

If  father  asks  for  me,  say  I  shall  wait  there 
\Nods  towards  left.'\ 

MARIE. 

And  have  n't  you  a  word  for  me,  Magda? 


Magda.  141 


MAGDA. 

Oh,  yes.  Fear  nothing.  \_Kisses  her  on  the 
forehead.'\  Everything  will  come  out  well,  so 
well  —  no,  no,  no.  \_In  weary  bitterness.'\ 
Everything  will  come  out  quite  well.  \jExity  left. 
Marie  goes  into  the  di7iing-room.'\ 

Enter  Schwartze.  He  takes  out  a  pistol-case 
and  opens  it.  Takes  a  pistol,  cocks  it  with 
difficulty,  examines  the  barrel,  and  aims  at 
a  point  on  the  wall.  His  arm  trembles 
violently.  He  strikes  it  angrily,  and  lets 
the  pistol  sink.     Enter  Max. 

schwartze. 
[  Without  turning.']    Who 's  there  ? 

MAX. 

It 's  I,  uncle. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Max?    Ah,  you  may  come  in. 

MAX. 

Uncle,  Marie  told  me  —  What  are  the  pis- 
tols for,  uncle  ? 

SCHWARTZE. 

Ah,  they  used  to  be  fine  pistols,  —  beautiful 
pistols.  See,  boy,  with  this  I  have  hit  the  ace 
of  hearts  at  twenty  paces,  or  say  fifteen.  And 
fifteen  would  be  enough.  We  ought  to  have 
been  in   the   garden   already,  but  —  but  [_help- 


142  Magda. 

lessly  touches  his  trembling  arm,  almost  in  tears'] 
—  but  I  can  nevermore  — 

MAX. 

\^Hurryirtg  to  him.']  Uncle?  \_They  embrace 
each  other  for  a  moment^ 

SCHWARTZE. 

It 's  all  right,  —  it 's  all  right. 

MAX. 

Uncle,  I  need  not  say  that  I  take  your  place, 
that  I  meet  any  man  you  point  out ;  it  is  my 
right. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Yours,  —  why?  In  what  capacity?  Will  you 
marry  into  a  disgraced  family? 

MAX. 

Uncle  ! 

SCHWARTZE. 

Are  you  prepared  to  strip  off  the  uniform  of 
our  regiment?  Yes,  I  might  set  up  a  gambling- 
house,  and  you  could  play  the  stool-pigeon  for 
a  living.  There  is  no  knowing  what  we  might 
do.  What !  you,  with  your  beautiful  name,  your 
noble  name,  propose  this  sacrifice,  —  and  I  to 
profit  by  it !  Ha,  ha  !  No,  my  boy  ;  even  if  you 
still  were  willing,  I  am  not.  This  house  and  all 
within  are  marked  for  ruin.  Go  your  way  from 
it.  With  the  name  of  Schwartze  you  have  noth- 
ing more  to  do. 


Magda.  143 


MAX. 

Uncle,  I  demand  that  you  — 

SCHWARTZE. 

Hush  !  Not  now !  \_Motions  to  the  door^ 
Boon  I  may  need  you  as  one  needs  a  friend  in 
such  affairs,  but  not  now  —  not  now.  First  I 
must  find  the  gentleman.  He  was  not  at  home  — 
the  gentleman  was  not  at  home.  But  he  shall 
not  think  he  has  escaped  me.  If  he  is  out  a 
second  time,  then,  my  son,  your  work  begins. 
Until  then,  be  patient,  —  be    patient. 

Enter  Theresa  from  hall. 

THERESA. 

Councillor  von  Keller.     [Schwartze  starts!\ 

MAX. 

He  here  !   How  — 

SCHWARTZE. 

Let  him  come  in.  \_Exit  Theresa. 

MAX. 

Uncle  !  \_Points  to  himself  in  great  excitement. 
Schwartze  shakes  his  head,  and  signs  to  Max 
to  leave  the  room.  Enter  Von  Keller.  Exit 
Max.  They  meet  in  the  doorway.  Von  Keller 
greets  Max  courteously.  Max  restrains  himself 
from  insulting  him.'\ 


144  Magda. 


VON  KELLER. 

Colonel,  I  am  grieved  at  having  missed  you. 
When  I  returned  from  the  Casino,  where  I  am 
always  to  be  found  at  noon,  —  where,  I  say,  I 
am  always  to  be  found,  —  your  card  lay  on  the 
table  ;  and  as  I  imagine  that  there  are  matters  of 
importance  to  be  discussed  between  us,  I  made 
haste  —  as  I  say,  I  have  made  haste  — 

SCHWARTZE. 

Councillor,  I  do  not  know  whether  in  this 
house  there  should  be  a  chair  for  you,  but  since 
you  have  come  here  so  quickly,  you  must  be 
tired.     I  beg  you  to  be  seated. 

VON  KELLER. 

Thanks.  \^Si/s  down,  near  the  open  pistol- 
case,  starts  as  he  sees  it,  watches  the  CoLONEL  ap- 
prehensively.'\    H'm  ! 

SCHWARTZE. 

Now,  have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me? 

VON  KELLER. 

Allow  me  first  one  question ;  Did  your 
daughter,  after  our  conversation,  say  anything 
to  you  about  me  ? 

SCHWARTZE. 

Councillor,  have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  ? 


Magda.  145 


VON  KELLER. 


Oh,  certainly,  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to 
you.  I  would  gladly,  for  instance,  express  to 
you  a  wish,  a  request ;  but  I  don't  quite  know 
whether  —  Won't  you  tell  me,  at  least,  has  your 
daughter  spoken  of  me  at  all  favorably  ? 


SCHWARTZE. 


\_Angrify.']    I  must  know,  sir,  how  we  stand, 
in  what  light  I  am  to  treat  you. 

VON  KELLER. 

Oh,  pardon  me,  now  I  understand  —  [  Work- 
ing himself  up.']  Colonel,  you  see  in  me  a  man  who 
takes  life  earnestly.  The  days  of  a  light  youth  — 
[ScHWARTZE  looks  Up  atigrify.']  Pardon  me,  I 
meant  to  say  —  since  early  this  morning  a  holier 
and,  if  I  may  say  so,  a  more  auspicious  resolution 
has  arisen  within  me.  Colonel,  I  am  not  a  man 
of  many  words.  I  have  already  wandered  from 
the  point.     As  one  man  of  honor  to  another,  or 

—  in  short,  Colonel,  I  have  the  honor  to  ask  you 
for  the  hand  of  your  daughter.  [Schwartze  sits 
motionless,  breathing  heavily.']  Pardon  me,  you 
do  not  answer  —  am  I  perhaps  not  worthy  — 

SCHWARTZE. 

[  Groping/or  his  hand.]    No,  no,  no  ;  not  that, 

—  not  j;hat.  I  am  an  old  man.  These  last  hours 
have  been  a  little  too  much  for  me.  Don't  mind 
me. 

10 


1^6  Magda. 

VON  KELLER. 


H'm,  h'm  r 


SCHAVARTZE. 


\^Ris:ng,  arte/  dosing  the  Hd  of  the  pistol-case^ 
Give  me  your  nand,  my  young  friend.  You 
have  brought  neavy  sorrow  upon  me,  —  heavy 
sorrow.  But  you  have  promptly  and  bravely 
made  it  good.  Give  me  the  other  hand.  So, 
so  !  And  now  do  you  wish  to  speak  to  her  also  ? 
You  will  have  much  to  say.     Eh  ? 

VON  KELLER. 

If  i  might  be  allowed. 

SCHWARTZE. 

\^Opens  the  hall-door  and  speaks  off,  then 
opens  the  door,  left.']    Magda  ! 

Enter  Magda. 

MAGDA. 

What  is  it,  father? 

SCHWARTZE. 

Magda,  this  gentleman  asks  for  the  honor  — 
\^As  he  sees  the  two  together,  he  looks  with 
sudden  anger  from  one  to  the  other^ 

MAGDA. 

\  Anxiously^     Father? 


Magda.  14^ 


SCHWARTZE. 

Now  everything  's  arranged.  Don't  make  it 
too  long  !  \_To  Magda.]  Yes,  everything's  all 
right  now.  [Exif. 

VON  KELLER. 

Ah,  my  dearest  Magda,  who  could  have  sus- 
pected it? 

MAGDA. 

Then  we  are  to  be  married. 

VON  KELLER. 

Above  all,  I  don't  want  you  to  entertain  the 
idea  that  any  design  of  mine  has  been  at  the 
bottom  of  this  development  which  I  welcome 
so  gladly,  which  I  — 

MAGDA. 

I  have  n't  reproached  you. 

VON   KELLER. 

No,  you  have  no  reason. 

MAGDA. 

None  whatever. 

VON  KELLER. 

Let  me  further  say  to  you  that  it  has  always 
been  my  strongest  wish  that  Providence  might 
bring  us  together  again. 


148  Magda. 

MAGDA. 

Then  you  have  really  never  ceased  to  love 
me? 

VON    KELLER. 

Well,  as  an  honorable  man  and  without  exag- 
geration I  can  scarcely  assert  that.  But  since 
early  this  morning  a  holier  and  a  more  auspi- 
cious resolution  has  arisen  within  me  — 

MAGDA. 

Pardon  me,  would  this  holy  and  auspicious 
resolution  have  arisen  within  you  just  the  same 
if  I  had  come  back  to  my  home  in  poverty  and 
shame? 

VON   KELLER. 

My  dearest  Magda,  I  am  neither  self- 
seeking  nor  a  fortune-hunter,  but  I  know  what 
is  due  to  myself  and  to  my  position.  In  other 
circumstances  there  would  have  been  no  so- 
cial possibility  of  making  legitimate  our  old 
relations  — 

MAGDA. 

I  must  consider  myself,  then,  very  happy  in 
these  ten  long  years  to  have  worked  up  uncon- 
sciously towards  such  a  high  goal. 

VON   KELLER. 

I  don't  know  whether  I  am  too  sensitive,  but 
that  sounds  almost  like  irony.  And  I  hardly 
think  that  — 


Magda.  149 


MAGDA. 

That  it  is  fitting  from  me? 

VON   KELLER. 

[DeprecatinglyJ]     Oh ! 

X  MAGDA. 

I  must  ask  for  your  indulgence.  The  role  of 
a  patient  and  forbearing  wife  is  new  to  me. 
Let  us  speak,  then,  of  the  future  [sits  ana 
motions  to  him  to  do  the  sa7ne\  —  of  our  future. 
What  is  your  idea  of  what  is  to  come  ? 

VON    KELLER. 

You  know,  my  dearest  Magda,  I  have  great 
designs.  This  provincial  town  is  no  field  for 
my  statesmanship.  Besides,  it  is  my  duty  now 
to  find  a  place  which  will  be  worthy  of  your 
social  talents.  For  you  will  give  up  the  stage 
and  concert-hall,  —  that  goes  without  saying. 

MAGDA. 

Oh,  that  goes  without  saying? 

VON    KELLER. 

Oh,  I  beseech  you  —  you  don't  understand 
the  conditions ;  it  would  be  a  fatal  handicap  for 
me.     I  might  as  well  leave  the  service  at  once. 

MAGDA. 

And  if  you  did  ? 


150  Magda. 


VON   KELLER. 

Oh,  you  can't  be  in  earnest.  For  a  hard- 
working and  ambitious  man  who  sees  a  brilHant 
future  before  him  to  give  up  honor  and  position, 
and  as  his  wife's  husband  to  play  the  vagabond, 
—  to  hve  merely  as  the  husband  of  his  wife  ? 
Shall  I  turn  over  your  music,  or  take  the  tickets 
at  the  box-office?  No,  my  dearest  friend,  you 
underestimate  me,  and  the  position  I  fill  in 
society.  But  don't  be  uneasy.  You  will  have 
nothing  to  repent  of.  I  have  every  respect  for 
your  past  triumphs,  but  \J>ompously]  the  highest 
reward  to  which  your  feminine  ambition  can 
aspire  will  be  achieved  in  the  drawing-room. 

MAGDA. 

[^AstdeJ]  Good  Heaven,  this  thing  I  'm  do- 
ing is  mere  madness  ! 

VON    KELLER. 

What  do  you  say?  [Magda  shakes  her 
head.']  And  then  the  wife,  the  ideal  wife,  of 
modern  times  is  the  consort,  the  true,  self- 
sacrificing  helper  of  her  husband.  For  instance, 
you,  by  your  queenly  personality  and  by  the 
magic  of  your  voice,  will  overcome  my  enemies, 
and  knit  even  my  friends  more  closely  to  me. 
And  we  will  be  largely  hospitable.  Our  house 
shall  be  the  centre  of  the  most  distinguished 
society,  who  still  keep  to  the  severely  gracious 
manners  of  our  forefathers.  Gracious  and 
severe  may  seem  contradictory  terms,  but  they 
are  not. 


Magda.  151 


MAGDA. 

You  forget  that  the  child  on  whose  account 
this  union  is  to  be  consummated  will  keep  the 
severely  inclined  away  from  us. 

VON    KELLER. 

Yes,  I  know,  dear  Magda,  it  will  be  painful 
for  you ;  but  this  child  must  of  course  remain 
the  deepest  secret  between  us.  No  one  must 
suspect  — 

MAGDA. 

\^Astounded  and  incredulous^  What  — what 
do  you  say? 

VON  KELLER. 

Why,  it  would  ruin  us.  No,  no,  it  is  absurd 
to  think  of  it.  But  we  can  make  a  little 
journey  every  year  to  wherever  it  is  being  edu- 
cated. One  can  register  under  a  false  name ; 
that  is  not  unusual  in  foreign  parts,  and  is  hardly 
criminal.  And  when  we  are  fifty  years  old,  and 
other  regular  conditions  have  been  fulfilled, 
\Jaughhtg\,  that  can  be  arranged,  can't  it  ? 
Then  we  can,  under  some  pretext,  adopt  it,  can't 
we? 

MAGDA. 

\^Breaks  into  a  piercing  laugh ;  then,  with 
clasped  hands  and  staring  eyes^^  My  sweet ! 
My  little  one  !  Mio  bambino  !  Mio  povero 
—  bam  —  you  —  you  —  I  am  to  —  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
^Tries    to   open   the  /oldifig  doorJ^     Go  !    go  I 


152  Magda. 

Enter  Schwartze. 

SCHWARTZE. 

What  — 

MAGDA. 

Good  you  're  here  !  Free  me  from  this  man, 
take  this  man  away  from  me. 

SCHWARTZE. 

What? 

MAGDA. 

I  have  done  everything  you  demanded.  I 
have  humbled  myself,  I  have  surrendered  my 
judgment,  I  have  let  myself  be  carried  like  a 
lamb  to  the  slaughter.  But  my  child  I  will  not 
leave.  Give  up  my  child  to  save  his  career  I 
\Throws  herself  into  a  chair ^ 

SCHWARTZE. 

Mr.  von  Keller,  will  you  please  — 

VON    KELLER. 

I  am  inconsolable,  Colonel.  But  it  seems 
that  the  conditions  which  for  the  interest  of 
both  parties  I  had  to  propose,  do  not  meet  the 
approbation  — 

SCHWARTZE. 

My  daughter  is  no  longer  in  the  position  to 
choose  the  conditions  under  which  she  —  Dr. 
von  Keller,  I  ask  your  pardon  for  the  scene  to 
which  you  have  just  been  subjected.  Wait  for 
me  at  your  home.     I  will  myself  bring  you  my 


Magda.  i  ^2 

daughter's  consent.  For  that  I  pledge  yoa 
my  word  of  honor.  [Sensation.  Magda  rises 
quickly.'] 

VON    KELLER. 

Have  you  considered  what  — 

SCHWARTZE. 

\_HoIdif7g  out  his  hand.']  I  thank  you,  Dr. 
von  Keller. 

VON   KELLER. 

Not  at  all.     I  have  only  done  my  duty. 

\_Exii,  with  a  bow, 

MAGDA. 

\_Stretching  herself?^     So  !  Now  I  'm  the  old 
'Magda  again.     [Schwartze  locks  the  three  doors 
silently.]     Do  you   think,   father,   that   I    shall 
become  docile  by  being  shut  up? 

SCHWARTZE. 

So !  Now  we  are  alone.  No  one  sees  us 
but  He  who  sees  us  —  there  \J>ointing  up- 
ward] Quiet  yourself,  my  child.  We  must  talk 
together. 

MAGDA. 

\_Sifs  do7vn.]  Good  !  We  can  come  to  an 
understanding,  then,  —  my  home  and  I. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Do  you  see  that  I  am  now  quite  calm? 

MAGDA. 

Certainly. 


1^4  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Quite  calm,  am  I  not?  Even  my  arm  does 
not  tremble.  What  has  happened,  has  hap- 
pened.     But  just  now  I  gave  your  betrothed  — 

MAGDA. 

My  betrothed  ?  —     Father  dear  ! 

SCHWARTZE. 

I  gave  your  betrothed  my  word  of  honor. 
And  that  must  be  kept,   don't  you  see? 

MAGDA. 

But  if  it  is  not  in  your  power,  my  dear 
father. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Then  I  must  die,  —  then  I  must  simply  die. 
One  cannot  live  on  when  one  —  You  are  an 
officer's  daughter.    Don't  you  understand  that? 

MAGDA. 

\_Compassionately r^     My  God  I 

SCHWARTZE. 

But  before  I  die,  I  must  set  my  home  in 
order,  must  I  not  ?  Every  one  has  something 
which  he  holds  sacred.  What  is  sacred  to  your 
inmost  soul? 

MAGDA. 

My  art. 


Magda.  155 

SCHWARTZE. 

No,  that  is  not  enough.  It  must  be  more 
sacred. 

MAGDA. 

My  child. 

SCHWARTZE. 

Good  !  Your  child,  —  your  child,  —  you  love 
it?  [Magda  nodsP^  You  wish  to  see  it  again? 
{She  nods.']  And  — yes— if  you  made  an 
oath  upon  its  head  {makes  a  motion  as  if  he 
laid  his  hand  upon  a  child's  head],  then  you 
would  not  perjure  yourself?  [Magda  shakes 
her  head,  smiling]  That's  well.  {Rising^ 
Either  you  swear  to  me  now,  as  upon  his  head, 
that  you  will  become  the  honorable  wife  of  his 
father,  or  —  neither  of  us  two  shall  go  out  of 
this  room  alive.     {Sinks  back  on  the  seat^ 

magda. 

{After  a  short  silence.]  My  poor,  dear 
papa !  Why  do  you  torture  yourself  so  ? 
And  do  you  think  that  I  will  let  myself  be 
constrained  by  locked  doors?  You  cannot 
believe  it. 

SCHWARTZE. 

You  will  see. 

MAGDA. 

{In  growing  excitement:]  And  what  do  you 
really  want  of  me?  Why  do  you  trouble  your- 
self about  me?  I  had  almost  said,  what  have 
you  all  to  do  with  me? 


156  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

That  you  will  see. 

MAGDA. 

You  blame  me  for  living  out  my  life  without 
asking  you  and  the  whole  family  for  permission. 
And  why  should  I  not?  Was  I  not  without 
family?  Did  you  not  send  me  out  into  the 
world  to  earn  my  bread,  and  then  disown  me 
because  the  way  in  which  I  earned  it  was  not 
to  your  taste?  Whom  did  I  harm?  Against 
whom  did  I  sin?  Oh,  if  I  had  remained  the 
daughter  of  the  house,  like  Marie,  who  is  noth- 
ing and  does  nothing  without  the  sheltering 
roof  of  the  home,  who  passes  straight  from 
the  arms  of  her  father  into  the  arms  of  her 
husband ;  who  receives  from  the  family  life, 
thought,  character,  everything,  —  yes,  then  you 
would  have  been  right.  In  such  a  one  the 
slightest  error  would  have  ruined  everything,  — 
conscience,  honor,  self-respect.  But  I?  Look 
at  me.  I  was  alone.  I  was  as  shelterless  as 
a  man  knocked  about  in  the  world,  dependent 
on  the  work  of  my  own  hands.  If  you  give 
us  the  right  to  hunger  —  and  I  have  hungered 
—  why  do  you  deny  us  the  right  to  love,  as 
we  can  find  it,  and  to  happiness,  as  we  caa 
understand  it? 

SCHWARTZE. 

You  think,  my  child,  because  you  are  free 
and  a  great  artist,  that  you  can  set  at  naught  — 


Magda.  157 

MAGDA. 

Leave  art  out  of  the  question.  Consider  me 
nothing  more  than  the  seamstress  or  the 
servant-maid  who  seeks,  among  strangers,  the 
httle  food  and  the  Uttle  love  she  needs.  See 
how  much  the  family  with  its  morality  demand 
from  us  !  It  throws  us  on  our  own  resources, 
it  gives  us  neither  shelter  nor  happiness,  and 
yet,  in  our  loneliness,  we  must  live  according 
to  the  laws  which  it  has  planned  for  itself  alone. 
We  must  still  crouch  in  the  corner,  and  there 
wait  patiently  until  a  respectful  wooer  happens 
to  come.  Yes,  wait.  And  meanwhile  the  war 
for  existence  of  body  and  soul  is  consuming  us. 
Ahead  we  see  nothing  but  sorrow  and  despair, 
and  yet  shall  we  not  once  dare  to  give  what 
we  have  of  youth  and  strength  to  the  man  for 
whom  our  whole  being  cries  ?  Gag  us,  stupefy 
us,  shut  us  up  in  harems  or  in  cloisters  —  and 
that  perhaps  would  be  best.  But  if  you  give 
us  our  freedom,  do  not  wonder  if  we  take 
advantage  of  it. 

SCHWARTZE. 

There,  there  !  That  is  the  spirit  of  rebellion 
abroad  in  the  world.  My  child  —  my  dear 
child  —  tell  me  that  you  were  not  in  earnest  — 
that  you  —  that  you  —  pity  me  —  if —  \^Look- 
ingfor  the  pistol-case^.  I  don't  know  what  may 
happen  —  child  —  have  pity  on  me  1 

MAGDA. 

Father,  father,  be  calm,  I  cannot  bear  that. 


158  Magda. 

SCHWARTZE. 

I  will  not  do  it  —  I  cannot  do  it  —  [^Look- 
ing  still/or  the  pis  to  I- case.']  Take  it  from  me  ! 
Take  it  from  me  ! 

MAGDA. 

What,  father? 

SCHWARTZE. 

Nothing,  nothing,  nothing.  I  ask  you  for 
the  last  time. 

MAGDA. 

Then  you  persist  in  it? 

SCHWARTZE. 

My  child,  I  warn  you.  You  know  I  cannot 
do  otherwise. 

MAGDA. 

Yes,  father,  you  leave  me  no  other  way.  Well, 
then,  are  you  sure  that  you  ought  to  force 
me  upon  this  man  —  [Schwartze  listens']  that, 
according  to  your  standards,  I  am  altogether 
worthy  of  him?  \_Hesiiati71g,  looking  into 
space.]  I  mean  —  that  he  was  the  only  one  in 
my  life  ? 

SCHWARTZE. 

\_Feels  for  the  pistol-case  and  takes  the  pistol 
out.]  You  jade  !  [^He  advances  upon  her,  try- 
ing to  raise  the  weapon.  At  the  same  moment 
he  falls  back  on  the  seat,  where  he  remains  mo- 
tionless, with  staring  eyes,  the  pistol  grasped  in 
his  hand,  which  hangs  down  by  his  side."] 


Magda.  159 

MAGDA. 

[fF/V/i  a  loud  cry?^  Father!  \She  flies 
toward  the  stove  for  shelter  from  the  weapon, 
then  takes  a  few  steps,  with  her  hands  before  her 
face.'\  Father  !  \^She  sinks,  with  her  knees  in 
a  chair,  her  face  on  the  back.  Calling  and 
knocking  outside.  The  door  is  broken  open7\ 
Enter  Max,  Marie,  Heffterdingt,  and  Mrs. 

SCHWARTZE. 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

Leopold,  what 's  the  matter?  Leopold!  \To 
the  Pastor.]    O  my  God,  he  's  as  he  used  to  be  ! 

MARIE. 

Papa  dear !  Speak,  one  word  !  \Throws 
herself  down  at  his  right.'\ 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

Get  the  doctor,  Max. 

MAX. 

Is  it  a  stroke  ? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

I  think  so.  \_Exit  Max.  Aside  to  Magda.] 
Come  to  him.  \_As  she  hesitates.']  Come  ;  it 
is  the  end.  \_Leads  her  trembling  to  Schwartze's 
chair.] 

MRS.  SCHWARTZE. 

[  Who  has  tried  to  take  the  pistol.]  Let  it 
go,  Leopold  ;  what  do  you  want  with  it?  See, 
he  's  holding  the  pistol  and  won't  let  it  go. 


i6o  Magda. 

HEFFTERDENGT. 

[_Aside.']  It  is  the  convulsion.  He  cannot. 
My  dear  old  friend,  can  you  understand  what 
I  'm  saying  to  you?  [Schwartze  dows  his  hrad 
a  little.  Magda  sinks  dowti  at  his  left.']  God, 
the  All-Merciful  One,  has  called  you  from  on 
high.  You  are  not  her  judge.  Have  you  no 
sign  of  forgiveness  for  her  ?  [Schwartze  shakes 
his  head  slowly.'] 

MARIE. 

\_Sinking  down  by  Magda.]  Papa,  give  her 
your  blessing,  dear  papa  !  \_A  smile  transfig- 
ures his  face.  The  pistol  escapes  from  his  hand. 
He  raises  his  hand  slowly  to  place  it  on  Marie's 
head.  In  the  midst  of  this  motion  a  spastn  goes 
through  his  body.  His  ann  falls  back,  his  head 
sinks.] 

MRS.  schwartze. 

\(^fying  out.]     Leopold  ! 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

\_Taking  her  hand.]  He  has  gone  home. 
\_He  folds  his  hands.  Silent  prayer,  broken  by 
the  sobbing  of  the  women.] 

MAGDA. 

\Springing  up  and  spreading  out  her  arms  in 
agony ^  Oh,  if  I  had  only  never  come  !  [Heff- 
TERDiNGT  makes  a  motion  to  beg  her  silence. 
She  misunderstands.]     Are  you  going  to  drive 


Magda.  i6i 

me  away  ?     His  life  was  the  cost  of  my  coming. 
May  I  not  stay  now  ? 

HEFFTERDINGT. 

■  \_Stmpfy  and  peacefully.']     No  one  will  hinder 
you  from  praying  upon  his  grave. 


{  Curtain  falls  slowly. "^ 


THE  END. 


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